Beyond The River
by SoloWraith
Summary: Sequel to ITF. One of the couples must winter in Albany, while the other has to stay at the cabin until spring...
1. Chapter 1

_Harvest Moon - (September) _

In the passage of the few weeks since she had last seen it, the small cabin had not changed at all, nor had its surroundings, with the exception of the color of the trees that framed the clearing, their rusty hues evidence that the season had turned. How strange, then, thought Alice, that upon first sight she had been shocked by how primitive it had all seemed--yet in comparison to the way she had spent the nights in recent memory, it was now a grand cathedral, a beacon of comfort and safety.

Her new home.

She brushed a strand of sun-bleached hair out of her face, the motion second nature by now, for though she continued to carefully braid her hair at nights it was always in hopeless disarray at the end of a day's travel.

She took in a deep breath of cool evening air.

_Their_ new home...

Dismissing that strangely uncomfortable thought from her mind, Alice followed Uncas up the well-trodden path into the clearing. The sole on one of her shoes was worn through, and she kicked them both off gladly now and went, barefoot, along the smooth hard dirt that made up the ground here.

Uncas, who had been bearing a heavy pack full of food and supplies from the wolf camp, had set his burden down and already entered the cabin, with that purposefulness which characterized him. Then he turned, glanced back at her and realized that she was hesitating.

His mouth softened to see her, standing there in her buckskin dress, beneath which the hem of her underdress hung in tatters, and with no shoes. Looking at him as if she expected something.

He crossed back over the threshold and down the few stone steps. "Come," he said, unnecessarily, taking her hand.

Alice, with some diffidence, let herself be led into the cabin. She gazed at her surroundings. The hearth, left tidy and ash-free by Chingachgook on one end; the rack of furs and skins along the far wall. The table and bench. The stand by the door for washing. A small storage chamber tucked into the back.

She felt sudden, irrational panic that rose as strongly as bile in her throat. What was she doing here?

Uncas must have sensed it as he would have sensed the panic of a hunted animal. He let go of her hand, which she had been about to pull away anyway, and said calmly, "You should rest."

Alice had no objections to that. Her body was exhausted. She had hoped that the passage of time might have hardened her, even just enough so that she could notice the difference between now and when she'd first arrived on these shores, but she still felt unutterably weary at the close of each day. She wondered how much longer it was going to take. She was cold, too, now.

Uncas pulled some of the hides off the rack and gestured that she should arrange them to her convenience, then went outside--probably, she guessed, to get wood for the fire.

Out of his presence she felt safe enough to let the tears, which over the past week she had successfully kept at bay, now spill out. The rough hides blurred beneath her gaze and she sorted them by touch only, pulling the softest ones to the top.

She thought of Cora and Nathaniel on the river, remembered her last glimpse of them as they'd disappeared. How long would it be until she saw her sister again? There was no way to know.

Wiping her decidedly grimy, streaked face with the sleeve of her dress, she remembered she had access to water now, and had better use it. She went over to the washstand, scrubbed her face and hands with a determination to get back in control of herself, and poured the dirty water out the window onto the straggling late wildflowers below.

Uncas re-entered the cabin bearing several armfuls of wood. Alice watched as he brought the logs over to the hearth and began to set up the fire. Once it was burning, and had cast a familiar glow over the room, whose natural light was now dimming, the cabin began to feel more inviting.

For dinner; they ate the remainder of the prepared food that had been packed for them at the camp. Alice was none too certain of her ability to render any of the dry supplies they had brought into anything remotely edible, so she hoped Uncas wouldn't expect that of her in the days to come. At least not at first. She was already beginning to suspect that as time went by, she would have little enough else with which to fill the days, and might--out of sheer need to have something to do--turn to cooking.

It was strange that, as comfortable as their silences had been in the wilderness, this meal time was awkward in comparison. The visible trappings of society around them--the physical walls, the sitting together at table--made Alice nervous. She felt the weight of her upbringing settle around her slight shoulders, and it was a weight that, borne together with Cora, had been endurable, but which she could hardly bear alone.

She wondered if Uncas' silence meant he too felt the awkwardness or--as was perhaps more likely knowing what she had learned of him--he simply didn't feel the need to speak.

"The fire is nice," she ventured at last.

Uncas made that noncommittal sound she had so often heard from both him and his brother.

_So much for that conversational gambit_, she thought. She finished her last mouthful of food without tasting it, swallowed, and ran her fingers along the rough edge of the table top, seeking some sort of physical confirmation that this was real, that they were real, that this was not just her dream of what their first night back at the cabin was going to be like. The table promptly provided physical confirmation in the form of a splinter. Alice let out a quiet yelp of surprise as she felt it pierce the tip of her index finger.

Uncas reached across the table without a change in expression and took her hand. She had more or less grown accustomed to his habit of doing this, as it happened so often now--whenever she faltered along the trails, or when they had passed over the river, or at nights before she slept. Still, though, the warmth of his skin always came as a surprise. She watched with curious eyes as he withdrew a small folded square of fabric from one of the many pockets he had on his person. Unfolding it, he revealed some type of grease, into which he dipped a finger. Though Alice drew back out of instinct--it smelled like rancid butter--he smoothed a bit over the area into which the fragment of wood had lodged itself.

"Tomorrow," was all he said by way of explanation.

* * *

Dark had not long settled itself over the clearing before both of them came to the unspoken conclusion that it was time to retire. If Uncas had been under any illusions about what their first night together at the cabin might entail, he found them quickly dispelled when he saw that Alice had no intention of sleeping beside him--though she had done so every night of the past week in the journey from the wolf camp.

He watched her as he banked the fire for the night; she was dividing the sleeping furs into two quite separate piles, one near each wall. While a corner of his mouth quirked in amusement at the obvious message, he couldn't help but be slightly mystified as to why she was suddenly enforcing such boundaries now. Though he had not made any specific assumptions that in bringing her here their relationship would immediately result in further intimacies, he didn't think it was so strange that they should continue to sleep side by side as they had done in the wilderness.

Still, he had no desire to force his presence upon Alice if it was troubling to her. With a philosophical mental shrug, he rose from the fireside. He could sense her tension all the way across the room; it was almost as if she were holding her breath.

Pushing most of the furs she'd put out for him out of the way--he didn't sleep on more than a single skin normally, to protect from the roughly hewn wood of the floor--he settled down in his space, stretching. It was good to be home. Were he alone, he wouldn't have made the distinction between the outdoors, the wolf camp, or the cabin in that respect; Uncas was not tied to any one location, but now that Alice was under his care, he felt at ease knowing he could safeguard her better from here. He had been in a state of almost constant alertness while they travelled, and tonight would be the first time since the camp that he'd be able to get a few hours of proper sleep.

He pillowed his head with his hands behind it and looked sideways at Alice. She was wrapped completely in fur, though the night wasn't cool enough to warrant doing so, with her eyes tightly shut although he knew she wasn't yet sleeping. As always, he was struck by how young, how vulnerable she looked like that.

_She knows nothing about cooking or home-building. She does not even know how to tan a hide. _

His father's words came, unexpected, unbidden, to his mind.

_I will help her_. Though his reply had been confident, Uncas did have misgivings about the fact that he would be doing it alone. He knew of no other young couple starting out without the benefit of camp society, left to solve any difficulties, any lack in upbringings, any differences of opinion on their own. It was, essentially, going to be a period of exile. And while he was fully ready to take on the responsibility of Alice's safety and survival, he was not at all confident that he would be able to manage his regular seasonal duties of hunting and stocking up for the winter at the same time he was keeping her safe. The hunt might be scarce--winter might come early, or be fiercer than normal...he could see complications already.

However, it was not his nature to dwell on such things: better to take each day as it came, and let the vagaries of external forces do what they would. Now was the time for rest.

"_Wiyon-ashay_," he said, watching her eyelids flutter as she registered his name for her.

"Yes?" she murmured at last in a rather fearful voice.

"Sleep."

Alice shifted somewhat fitfully and gave an acquiescent, relieved sigh.

The fire continued to throw out a steady heat until the early hours of the morning.

* * *

Alice awoke to muted birdsong, and for a few moments she just lay there, eyes closed, aware of stiffness in her arms and legs for which the only remedy was to move, but not wanting the day to be starting already. She had hoped her first morning in her--_their_, that persistent internal voice reminded her--new home would be one that she was eager to face, but it did not seem to be turning out that way.

Peeling back some of the furs and coming slowly to a sitting position, she realized that she was alone. For a moment, she felt a gnawing of concern in her stomach, but common sense indicated that wherever Uncas was he would surely not have gone far.

Thin tendrils of smoke curled upwards from the previous night's fire and there was fresh water on the washstand. Alice used some of it, longing as she did for a hot bath. That was one of the conveniences of England that she was sure would take some time for her to get used to going without. She determined to wash properly later that day, anyway, even if it meant she had to find a river to do it in. _And then we will have to unpack our supplies, and see about some sort of food, and the cabin really ought to be cleaned and..._

Alice had no intention of letting herself get idle enough to have time to give much thought to anything other than their immediate situation. There had been moments on the journey where, falling to sleep in the crook of Uncas' arm, she had been dangerously close to thinking of such things...of what her decision to come here really meant...of what _he_ thought it meant...Now, however, that it was a reality, she scrupulously avoided giving such issues any consideration.

What was important was that they made it through the first few days.

What was important was being practical and sensible.

_They all think I can't do it. They think I'm a child, a helpless child_. Her lips firmed as she crouched down to loosen the drawstrings on the sacks they'd brought with them from the camp. Chingachgook had said it plainly: _Your blood runs weak_. She had seen it in more subtle ways, as well; in the dismissive gestures of the aunt, the deference of the camp males, even in the sidelong glances of Sanquen. Even the concern she had read in Cora's eyes in their last moments together by the beach, had been further sign that no one, least of all her sister, really believed she was capable of surviving the winter in the wilderness alone with Uncas. Though she might be physically safe and looked after--she might not be of sound mind by the end of it, that was what they all thought.

And Alice, while she was in no way fully cognizant of just what hardships the winter might entail, vowed right then and there that she would show them to be wrong. She would survive! Thrive, even. She would be happy. She _had_ to be happy...

She set about unpacking with a new and determined energy that overrode the lingering uncertainties in her stomach. It was comforting to see all the goods they'd brought, most of it having been borne on Uncas' strong shoulders. There were sacks of corn and dried beans; packages of dried fish; various types of nuts she couldn't identity. She brought these all to the adjoining kitchen, which was really just a tiny storage shed with shelves, most now empty.

After the food supplies were put away, she investigated the contents of her own pack, which Sanquen had helped put together for her. There was a warm fur mantle, a butter-soft hide blanket which she touched, wondering again at its flexibility; a skirt and separate top to supplement her sad wardrobe, which consisted at the moment of her English shift and Delaware dress. At the bottom of the pack she discovered a pair of fur-lined slippers. She fingered these for a moment, fascinated by their construction.

Hearing noise outside now, Alice set aside the last of her things and opened the cabin door to step cautiously outdoors. She squinted into the early sun. Uncas was in the clearing, crouching by an assortment of felled bare trees.

"Good morning," she said, approaching with some diffidence. He didn't reply--not, she assumed, because he felt differently but because he probably thought of it as a linguistic custom rather than an observation that required response.

He just glanced at her, then returned his attention to whatever had been occupying it.

"What are you doing?" Alice persisted.

Uncas picked up a slender length of sapling, balancing it thoughtfully in one hand. "Making a bed," he said, after a moment.

This was not what she had expected to hear, and it threw her into an embarrassed silence, during which she was extremely grateful that he had not looked at her when he'd said this, because she knew her cheeks were flushing. A bed? For...her? Or...Of course he wouldn't think...Would he?

It was awkward, just standing there while he was crouched comfortably on the ground, but she scarcely knew how to join him; she didn't think her legs would even be able to position themselves in such a manner. Never mind how unladylike it would be. That was another thing to which she had yet to get accustomed. The lack of places to sit.

She could hardly ask him to start building an entire set of furniture just for her benefit, though.

"Did you...do you want to eat?" she asked at last. Her own stomach felt empty, not having seen anything since their early supper yesterday, so she could only imagine how a man's must feel.

Uncas looked up now and now his mouth twitched into a touch of a smile. "You do not have to feed me."

Alice felt rebuffed at this. She fidgeted. Unable to keep the petulance completely out of her voice, she said, "Then I would like to wash."

Uncas rose. "Water's not far."

She followed him off to the left of and past the cabin, discovering there yet another of their many trails, which led through an area lightly dotted with trees, before opening up to the small stream. She assumed this would be their drinking water as well as wash water, which seemed somehow unsuitable, but it did look clean and ran steeply downstream. Alice knelt and put her hand in, then withdrew it in surprise; it was colder by far than the river by the camp had been. Her vision of submerging her entire body in it as she had done by the little waterfall faded.

"It's icy," she said, rather crossly.

"Usually is, this time of year," Uncas answered. "I'll bring it into the cabin for you, from now on."

She recalled the tub she and Cora had taken turns in. How many trips would he have to make for her to have a simple bath? And it would probably never get really warm, even by the fire. With winter coming.

Uncas turned to go, then hesitated. "Don't take long," he said.

She nodded dutifully, wondering if he thought there was still danger in leaving her alone, if he thought she might be taken again. The idea had not occurred to her; that whole memory of the Englishmen coming upon her by surprise had faded to the point where it seemed like a distant unpleasant dream, not really part of her experience here at all. Here, there was only the two of them alone in the woods. No others. No outsiders. Besides, the cabin and clearing were still within hearing distance.

But in accordance with his instructions, she had an improvised bath, settling for washing most of her exposed parts and scrubbing those until her limbs were red both from exertion and cold. She washed some of her hair but couldn't get to the point of immersing her entire head in; it was simply too cold, and even with dampened hair her teeth were beginning to chatter. Before long she was hurrying back to the cabin, there to warm and properly dry herself by the fire. Uncas was still outside so she had the freedom to lift up her dress and warm her bare legs in the heat thrown off by the flames. Noticing that there were yams roasting in the pot near the coals, she eyed them hungrily. It had been a long time since dinner of the night before, and the earthy smell of the tubers beginning to cook was appealing.

She began to comb out her hair with her fingers, having no other implement with which to so do, and, suddenly aware of her skin catching on the individual strands of her hair, inspected the finger that had had the splinter lodged in it the previous day. To her surprise, though the pad of her finger was tender, the splinter seemed to have worked its way out. She continued to work her way through her tangled locks, letting out an exclamation at the matted knots that had formed over the days of travel.

When Uncas came back into the cabin, with saplings that he looked to be using for measuring purposes against the far wall, Alice said petulantly, "My hair is such a nuisance! I should cut it off altogether."

He glanced over at her, but didn't comment, and went back outside shortly thereafter, and didn't return until the early evening. Her mood had remained rather poor throughout the afternoon because of her vexation with her unmanageable hair, and his apparent lack of concern with it, so she eyed him rather sulkily when he did re-enter. But he approached her holding something and when he held out his hand he saw that it contained a small carved comb, similar in shape to the one Nathaniel had given Cora. It was roughly made and a bit unevenly spaced, compared to what a skilled craftsman might have produced, but Alice only saw the fact that he had created it for her, and she realized she had done him a disservice in thinking he'd just been ignoring her. He was in the middle of building a bed for her to sleep in and he had stopped work on that to make her a comb so she could untangle her hair. Affected by such a present, she accepted it timidly, murmuring, "Thank you," and feeling the inadequacy of such a statement, but unable to produce a more effusive response.

Uncas' eyes sought hers and held them. "Don't cut your hair," he said, and though he said it lightly enough she could see that he meant it.

She shook her head obediently and, as he turned to go back outside, gave the comb an experimental pass through her locks. It was nothing, of course, compared to her ivory-backed set of brushes and combs contained within her toiletries in her trunk, but it was also the first time someone had made something for her, almost as soon as she'd needed it, without being asked.

With an unconscious smile decorating her lips she sat quietly by the fire and spent the next little while combing out her hair until it looked like smooth flax.

* * *

_September ?, 1757_

_Somewhere on the way to Albany_

_Dear Alice,_

_Though I have no way of knowing if, or when, this letter will ever make it into your hands, it is my hope that it finds you in good health, and before very long. Only a fortnight has passed (Nathaniel tells me) since we parted at the river, but it seems as if it has been much longer. Thus far, our journey has been, thankfully, uneventful. We are on the road to Albany at last, and hope to make it to the town before the first snow, but we have a long way to go yet._

_The river travel was not so tiring by comparison. Once we arrived at the Wampanoag village, we were able to trade for horses. I am not certain what kind of deal Nathaniel made with the natives (who did not seem to me as welcoming as Uncas' people), but we came away with a lighter load and two horses to carry us onwards. As you know, I am unaccustomed to riding horseback, though Nathaniel says I have learned quickly. It still does not seem quite the thing to ride astride, but we have not yet encountered any Europeans, so I do not let it worry me. And as exhausting the hours spent riding are, it is still vastly preferable to walking._

_Nathaniel is taking excellent care of me; __you are not to worry on that account. The nights have gotten cooler, sleeping on the ground, but we have our furs and cloaks, although I do not look forward to testing them with the first frost or first snowfall, which is sure to come before long. I can tell Nathaniel is anxious to reach Albany before then, but he also does not wish to exhaust me. I keep telling him I am stronger than he believes, but he insists on frequent rests for my benefit and we make camp quite early in the evenings._

_In some ways, though I too long to be in Albany, and to see what has become of our trunks and belongings, I also do not wish it to come too quickly. Our situation is so unique. Though we intend to get married as soon as possible upon arrival, it is certain that the townsfolk will gossip, and I don't care to start out among new people who will certainly hold a negative opinion of us before we have even met. And Nathaniel, while I could never be ashamed of him, is like to be quite different from the other British who have settled here. I expect we will have a hard time fitting in--certainly at first, perhaps we never shall..._

_But here I go on about my imagined difficulties, when I'm sure you are currently being faced with so much more! Alice, I often wonder if I should not have left you? Was I wrong to leave you? Selfish, in wanting to be with Nathaniel? (He could have done this alone, after all, and faster, without me.) I tell myself every day that you are happy with your choice to stay with Uncas in the cabin for the winter. Am I right? I wish I could know. I wish I could see you. Maybe it would have been better for you to stay in the camp. I know that the men believed the cabin to be safer, but at the camp, at least you would have had other women around you. _

_My dear young sister. I pray every day for you. I pray that you are safe and warm. I pray that Uncas...well, I do not always know exactly what to pray for Uncas...just, I suppose, that he takes care of you as Nathaniel vows he will..._

_I must conclude this letter; I am writing by the light of the evening sun, which is fast fading, and though I have not told you everything that is in my heart, I am eager to wrap this letter and wait for the chance to deposit it into the hands of someone trustworthy who can bring it to you, eventually...Nathaniel thinks we may chance upon runners in some of the smaller settlements between here and Albany, who will be willing to take it back, if they are paid handsomely enough._

_Dearest Alice. Please be well. Do not worry about me. It is only a few months until the spring and we can be together again. God be with you until then._

_Your loving sister,_

_Cora Munro _


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_Hunter Moon (October)_

Alice, face flushed, crouched by the fire and gave the small pot of corn a half-hearted stir. It was her first attempt at cooking, and she had wanted to perform it unobserved, so she'd waited until Uncas had said he was going to be gone on a short hunt that afternoon.

The corn mush didn't look very appetizing. It had been simmering for a while, so she assumed it was safe to eat, but it had yet to resemble anything she'd consumed at the wolf camp.

She withdrew the wooden spoon from the contents, tapped the soupy corn off it, and laid it on the hearth. Her crouched pose was not comfortable enough to maintain for any length of time, so she slowly sank to a sitting position, staring into the flames, wondering when Uncas would return. Though he had promised not to be long--it was the first time he'd left her since they'd returned to the cabin--he had been gone since midday, and the afternoon was wearing on. She had not thought she would be afraid to be alone; in fact, she had thought to welcome it, for his constant presence marked by his lack of conversation had become a little tiring. But now, after some time had passed, the silence of the cabin, the silence of the surrounding forest, had become a palpable, almost grim presence of its own, and Alice found herself uncomfortable with the solitude.

It was not so bad, or wouldn't be so bad, had she something with which to fill the time. Had she her books. Or even sewing, which she had never been especially fond of back in England. A few days ago, Uncas had shown her his father's trunk containing the few books which as children he and Nathaniel had learned to read from, but she had not yet looked into them. Hume's Treatise of Human Nature didn't look as if it would make a very good companion. She and Cora both preferred less aristocratic, less educational (but more interesting) works of fiction. At any rate, she intended to save what reading material there was until the dark days of winter, when they might not be able to go outside at all, once the snow lay heavy on the ground. She knew she was more likely to be glad of it then.

The corn was beginning to bubble upwards, in lazy yellow-brown globules, so Alice took the iron cooking rod and used it to pull the kettle a little farther away from the direct heat. She continued to stare rather glumly into the flames. Perhaps she could lie down for a brief nap, though she wasn't really tired. In the last week at the cabin there had been plenty of time for sleeping. They both retired early and Uncas didn't seem inclined to comment if she slept as late as she liked, long past when the sun had risen, though he himself was always outdoors by that point.

Her new bed was more comfortable than she'd thought. It had taken Uncas the better part of two days to plan it and put it together, and it was the largest thing in the cabin. Tucked back against the far wall, it was a low structure, only about a foot off the ground, and made of strong saplings through which coniferous branches had been loosely woven, creating a sort of springy, highly scented mattress. On top of this they had laid the rougher deer hides, tucking them into the edges, and the softer furs over top of that. It was no featherbed, to be sure, but Alice found it vastly preferable to sleeping on the floor, if only for the psychological comfort it afforded her.

She recalled the first night after the bed had been assembled. When she had first seen Uncas making him, he had clearly said that he was building a bed for her, so she had had no idea that he might seriously consider that they might be sharing it. The thought had certainly not crossed _her_ mind. It was one thing to lie side by side in the forest--that was for warmth and protection! But since they had come to the cabin, Alice had naturally concluded that they would resume at least some standards of morality and propriety to which she was accustomed, which did not include sharing one's sleeping space with a man.

Yet that night, after he had banked the fire for the evening, and she had settled down in her new bed, he had come over to her side, and lain down there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Her cheeks warmed again just thinking of it. He had...he had reached out for her! As if they were man and wife. When she had pulled away and sat upright, he'd seem genuinely confused. Then, when her expression must have revealed what she could hardly put into words, he seemed to have had understood. He had used his Mohegan name for her as he seemed to do when he was feeling tender, and told her he would sleep by the fire from now on. She had not been able to answer. She had been too embarrassed and upset. That first night she had been hardly able to get any sleep at all.

In the nights since then, Uncas had kept his word; quietly bunking down with a hide or fur by the fire, on the other end of the room, not making any more attempts to be near her. Alice was mollified by his quiet acceptance of her feelings. Some part of her hoped they might talk about it, because she began to wonder if she hadn't been too vehement, but he didn't mention it again, and she didn't dare bring it up, didn't know how to approach it at all. Best to go on as if nothing were amiss, she had decided. And his attitude towards her during the day had not changed. He managed to be attentive while uncommunicative--a talent she found baffling--unfailingly polite when she did address him, but uninclined to start any conversation of his own accord. She was beginning to wonder if this were a characteristic of all men, or perhaps only red ones? Although she had such little experience with men of any kind that it was foolish to posit an opinion. Nathaniel had always been verbose enough, at least when Cora had been around.

As always, the thought of her sister caused a tightness to form in her throat that she knew would develop into tears if she gave it the slightest chance. Alice rose from the fire now, needing physical activity to distract her from the memories. She had to consciously force herself every day to look only at the moments at hand, and the moments ahead of them, not at the summer gone by.

She went outside to wait for Uncas. The weather was what she had come to realize was typical of the fall here; sunny yet crisp with promise, leaves scattered about by a gentle wind, the sky overhead deeply and painfully blue. The air had a tinge of smoke to it, carried from the cabin chimney; it had become a comforting smell, because it always meant warmth, and habitation.

Alice considered hauling water for another bath, then decided against doing so. It would take too long. She could do it tomorrow. She'd gotten into the habit of washing her face and hands scrupulously several times a day, sometimes in the washbasin, sometimes at the river, which was always refreshingly cold, too cold for full body immersion now, but a good way to wake up in the morning.

The shadows in the surrounding forest were starting to deepen by the time Uncas finally re-appeared. Alice had fallen into something of a dreamy stupor, letting her thoughts carry her far away, and did not at first notice his presence until he was completely into the clearing.

He drew up to her, looking displeased. "What are you doing out here? Aren't you cold?"

"No," she lied out of instinct. He was empty-handed, she realized, and felt a touch of disappointment; she'd been counting on having something to supplement the corn she was worried might be even more tasteless than usual.

"You should stay inside," he said, with more of the customary gentleness in his tone now.

She rose, taking his outstretched hand for assistance, aware of stiffness in her legs from the time spent unmoving on the steps, and followed him rather meekly indoors.

Uncas went over to the fire. "You cooked?" he said in surprise upon seeing the steaming pot of corn. The fire had died down to embers while she'd been outdoors, but it had stayed warm on the hearth.

Alice sidled over, unable to hold back a smile of pride. "It's just corn. We may as well eat now, if you are hungry..."

At dinner time, they had fallen into the habit of sitting at the table together, no matter how meager the meal. Alice brought the pot of corn over, holding it in her skirt to protect her hands from the heat, and set it down in front of Uncas, who was looking at it now with a peculiar expression. She sat down across from him and gave him the wooden spoon. "Go ahead," she said, wondering if something was wrong.

Uncas took a careful mouthful. He swallowed slowly, and looked up at her as if he wanted to say something.

Alice felt her heart sink. _Of course, it probably tastes terrible..._

"_Wiyon-ashay_. Did you soak the corn first?"

"No, I..." Alice stared at the soup. She had seen the corn soaking overnight before, when Uncas had cooked it, but for some reason had neglected to do it herself. "What does it taste like?"

Uncas dipped up a tiny bit and held it out for her to taste. A little reluctantly, she did. And had to resist the impulse to spit it out. The kernels were still hard and starchy, and at the same time tasted charred. It in no way resembled the uniform mass of smooth soup she'd come to accept as normal fare.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling embarrassment rise over her. And, childishly, an urge to run, though there was nowhere to go, not even another room to retire to; unless the small pantry counted.

"It's fine," Uncas said calmly. "There is no shortage of corn. Tomorrow I will show you how to make it."

This was worse than if he had chastised her, she thought. Certainly more humiliating.

He took another spoonful and chewed with an exasperating lack of expression this time.

"Don't eat it," Alice said, knowing her voice was trembling with frustration. "It's burned."

Uncas used the spoon to examine the depths of the pot, confirming her diagnosis. "Only on the bottom," he said.

She was tempted to snatch the pot away from him, as he continued to eat from the upper portion of the soup.

"Should be wild rice soon," Uncas commented after he finished, pushing away the bowl as if it had been a normal meal. "But I'll need to go further for meat. Leave in the mornings and come back at nights, until I get something. Maybe next week. You'll be all right?"

Alice nodded, though she did not think she would be. It had only been half a day that he'd gone, she realized, and there would be twice as much time to put in by herself now, maybe more, if he returned empty-handed again...she thought wistfully of life at the wolf camp; if they were there now at least there would be others to go hunting in Uncas' stead and she would have someone bring food to her...the arrogance of this thought caused her to feel guilty for a few moments, but only a few. With some resentment she flipped hair back out of her face and stared at the uneven surface of the table. "Can I come?" she asked, irrelevantly, defying her earlier acceptance.

He looked surprised for a moment, then said, "Women don't hunt."

Alice was not offended by this; women didn't hunt in England either, but she felt a bit miffed that he spoke so to her, as if she did not know enough to realize it for herself. "What do women do?"

In the moment that it took him to answer, she wondered if he were going to reply: _They cook_.

"Well, if..." He paused.

"What?"

"If we'd stayed with my father's people, you would have learned soon enough."

Alice glanced up at him, confused. "Then why didn't we? I thought we were going to. I thought we would be staying at the camp."

"It's not as safe." Uncas rose. She assumed he was alluding to her kidnapping. "It's better this way."

_You won't think so if you have to eat burned corn every day this winter,_ Alice thought bitterly. She realized she was hungry. The taste of the charred soup had initially stemmed her appetite, but as Uncas went outside to dump the remainder of the pot into the garden and bring back, she knew, tea leaves for her nightly cup, she wondered if her stomach was actually audibly growling. She would not say so, though. She would drink her tea, and go to bed, and endure it. She would rather do that than ask him to make anything for her. Oh, why hadn't she taken an interest in food preparation in England! Alice was fond of all manner of teacakes, muffins, biscuits, delicate soups and green salads that had been their daily fare, but had no idea how any of them were created. It simply hadn't been part of her upbringing.

Uncas, as he'd been doing for the last while in the evenings, re-entered the cabin before long with a pot cleaned at the stream and fresh water for the kettle, and a handful of tea leaves. He crouched by the fire and took a moment to restore the glowing coals, which Alice had neglected that afternoon, back to flames, then put the tea leaves in the kettle to steep.

Alice watched from the table, back very straight, her hands folded in her lap. It had become her favorite part of the day, watching this warrior--who still seemed a stranger to her at times, who still had the ability to frighten her even if he never would--prepare tea for her. She liked to watch him. He had a natural grace about him that was almost animalistic in its lack of self-consciousness. She tried to imagine him back in England and couldn't. She could scarcely imagine herself back in England any more; each day that passed here seemed to equal a month in terms of her memories, blurring them so she could barely recall the faces of the people she and Cora had been surrounded by; dear faces, to be sure, but their outlines fuzzy as if seen through a windowglass streaked with rain.

She looked up under her lashes at Uncas as he brought her tea. "Thank you," she said, as she did every time out of force of habit. She sipped from the cup. There was only one cup, a carved wooden one whose lip was worn smooth and thin from years of use. The tea was quite bitter without any sugar to sweeten and mellow its bite, but she had grown used to that as well. It was enough just to have something warm; though the liquid did little to allay the hunger in her stomach, it always worked powerfully to soothe her mood. She never understood why Uncas seemed to have no desire to drink it--water was all he ever consumed. Whether it was used for cooking, cleaning, or drinking, it seemed that they had to make constant trips out to the stream to replenish their water supplies. Alice was glad of their proximity to the stream, and couldn't imagine having to go further afield for water.

"Warm enough?" Uncas asked, as he also usually did. It could have grown irritating, but Alice had come to expect him to ask, and she rather liked it. "Yes, thank you," she replied, wrapping her fingers around the cup, though the wood didn't really transmit the heat of its contents to her hands.

She felt that the evening called for a conversation, but didn't quite know how to conduct one with him. It seemed silly to talk of social matters or other discourse of the type that a man and a woman, settled in an English drawing room after dinner, might have engaged in. Occasionally she wanted to bring up something related to her previous life, but hesitated to do so lest Uncas think she was making a negative comparison between their cultures. And while she had questions about the ways of his people as well, she didn't want him to feel as if he had to defend their way of living.

It wasn't that Alice had any reason to think that having a conversation on anything other than matters practical and immediate would result in them arguing, but, out here, so isolated, with nowhere and no one to go to should they disagree about something, she had concluded that it would be best to avoid the situation to begin altogether.

So she sipped at her tea, vaguely discontented with the silence but unwilling or ignorant of how best to breach it, and waited until it would be appropriate to retire to bed.

* * *

The firelight was not really sufficient to see well by, but Uncas didn't need the light to know how to take apart and re-assemble the parts of the long rifle; he had done it so many times by now. The pieces were laid out on a skin near the hearth, and he was cleaning and wiping each part meticulously. A hunter had to take care of his weapons. This was a rule that had been drummed into him by example rather than verbal repetition; Chingachgook had been in the habit of taking care of his knives, tomahawks, bows and guns before attending to any other needs. The long rifle in particular was finicky enough and didn't need any excuse to misfire or malfunction, though in Uncas' hands it rarely did, to which he attributed the care he took over it.

He ran his fingers for a moment over the heavy maple stock, which was unadorned by any art. He was of two minds about spending the next few days out in the forest. The weather looked like it was going to be ideal, crisp and clear, and the hunt was such an essential part of the season that performing it was as natural as breathing, and fulfilling beyond the simple obtaining of meat, although that was an important end result. That, he looked forward to. But leaving Alice behind in the cabin for such long stretches of time was something he would have preferred not to do. She'd claimed not to mind, but he was not convinced this was true. He was beginning to think she didn't know what she wanted.

His lip twisted in wry amusement. _She's so young_. Actually Alice was no younger than most of the Delaware girls starting out with their new husbands, but her ignorance made her seem, at times, more of a child to him than she really was. There were times in the evening when she would be sitting at the table, and her posture was so proper and ladylike that it was almost as if she were playacting.

He wasn't sure when or how she had become so serious, though it had definitely begun with their return to the cabin. The mere presence of four walls didn't make any difference to him, but it apparently did to her. It was as if she were determined to erase the times she'd spent under the night skies lying in the crook of his arm.

He hadn't forgotten. Alice had gone immediately to sleep, and stayed asleep, on most of those occasions. But every night, when they'd settled down near a hollow tree or within a circlet of mossy stones or near a tumbling stream, he had held out his arm for her and she had come. Without question. Without dissemblance. Without even embarrassment, as far as he could have told at the time, though perhaps it was the shadow of darkness which made that so. She had laid her head against his shoulder with her body tucked against his, and by the time her breathing deepened and evened in slumber her arm had usually been flung across his chest as well.

No, he hadn't forgotten. And none of her straight backs and polite observations and English manners could make him. He had had her in his embrace for hours. He had watched the moon's path as it traced across the sky and danced on her pale skin. He had listened to her breathe, listen to her sleepy murmurs as she dreamed, had smoothed hair endlessly off her face and tangled his fingers in it.

Alice was his. If she didn't know that yet, or wasn't ready to say it, he could wait. It was enough that he had those memories, that he had her here, under his care, safe from others.

Glancing across the space of the cabin, he saw her form on the bed under a pile of furs. It had been dark for some time, so she was doubtless sleeping. The air on that side of the cabin was chill at nights, despite the steadily burning fire. Uncas was glad that his father had been right about the well-stocked piles of firewood out behind the cabin. He suspected they were going to need to burn more than normal this winter. Signs were pointing towards it being a cold one.

Though that didn't have to be a bad thing. Maybe it would encourage this stubborn white girl to return faster to his arms of a night.

He finished putting the rifle back together and laid it back carefully in its rack on the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Alice knew it was dawn but she felt no need to arise from under her covers. The pine scent had become familiarly associated with sleep now, and with closed eyes she inhaled it from the crushed fragrant branches beneath her, though it was not quite strong enough to overpower the rather more stale scent of the hides and furs. The morning air was too chilly and she knew from experience that the cabin floor would be icy on her bare feet. Yet she needed to visit the outhouse. For a while she lay there in motionless denial, trying to ignore her body's need to eliminate water, but it was not possible for long. Groaning in irritation, and longing for a bedroom chamberpot, she pushed back the heap of furs and swung her legs experimentally over the edge of the bed, feeling it scratch them as she did so. She recalled suddenly that she did have fur slippers and wondered why she'd waited till now to get them out. It was certainly far too cold to be going about barefoot these days.

Upon retrieving the remembered footwear and slipping them on her feet, she tiptoed out of the cabin and made the journey past the woodpiles to perform the act she needed. The space designed for such was little more than a deeply dug hole in the ground, but at least it had a cluster of trees about it for some measure of privacy, though Alice couldn't imagine having to use it when the snow came.

She went to the stream to wash her face and hands and drink some water. The stream had not yet begun to freeze over at night, but it could not be far off from doing so. Gasping a little from the shock of the temperature as the liquid dripped from her face and lips, she dried her hands on the edge of her dress and hastened back to the cabin.

Uncas was gone. He must have been gone before she had awakened, although in her need to make it to the privy she hadn't quite noticed his absence then. But the fire had been recently, though not too recently, attended to (she was beginning to pay attention to such things), and his sleeping hides were neatly stored over the racks by the fire, and his gun and hunting supplies were missing from their usual spaces.

Alice closed the door, feeling her stomach twist in uncertainty. She had completely forgotten he was to be gone today; he had told her the previous evening, of course, and had been preparing his things up until after she had retired to bed, but she had not thought to make a plan of how to spend the first long day by herself. She realized now that she should have.

Going back to bed seemed pointless; she had slept enough and was no longer tired. The cabin was chilly and she was hungry, however. With a determination she didn't really feel, Alice set about rebuilding the fire to a nice blaze. There was always some wood kept in the cabin for night-time burning, and it looked like it had been supplemented so she wouldn't have to go out during the day to get more. The corn had been set to soak the night before, so it was ready for cooking. At least she hadn't repeated _that_ mistake. Alice changed the water in the pot and put it over the fire.

While the corn simmered, Alice occupied herself by sweeping the cabin floor with a very crude broom that she had made herself for this purpose. She had used a birch stick, still green, and with leather twine had attached long-needled branches to one end. It wasn't the most elegantly designed, but was functional regardless, and she was proud of the fact that she had made something on her own. By the time she was finished sweeping the entire cabin, she had a nice pile of dust, dirt, tiny stones, and debris from the woodpile which she could simply sweep out the front door. Today she was particularly slow in her efforts, but it didn't seem to take up that much time.

She set the broom back in the corner and paced for a while.

Eating the corn at around midday, Alice was so hungry that she scarcely tasted it. It had become such a commonplace meal that it held little interest for her anyway. She consumed spoonful after spoonful only hoping that it would quell the insistent gnawing in her belly. But it wasn't satisfying. As she scooped up the last bit from the pot, she thought that she would give almost anything to be able to partake of something else; something from home; something as simple as a hot roll fresh from the oven, dripping with new butter.

_I wonder if Cora and Nathaniel are eating any better than I am_, she thought glumly. _Surely when they get to Albany they will; it is a real town! With horses and carriages and people and beds and stores and dress shops...and here I sit in a tiny cabin in the forest with no one around and nothing to eat but this horrible corn soup. And wearing this horrible stiff dress. _She fingered the buckskin dress and felt a little guilty for maligning it when she'd actually become used to that at least; in fact, it was at times oddly comfortable compared to the constrictions of her English dresses. But she longed to feel soft cottons and silks under her fingers again, longed to smooth out a length of colorful ribbon, to try on a neatly trimmed hat...

She let out a little sob of self-pity and frustration. _I should have gone to Albany with them! I could be halfway to having all those things again. I could be at my trunks that much faster. I could have my books; my music....Now I will have to wait until the spring, which is months away. Every day for the next five months could be like this!_

_Uncas...if it weren't for him, I would have gone. _She rapped her knuckles on the wooden table out of a need to hear a sound, and sighed at the same time. _Why did I agree to stay with him? I was a fool. I thought..._ She stared at the fire, which sparked reprovingly. _I thought..._

Her mind refused to conclude that sentence. She rose quickly and brought the pot to the basin to rinse it out and set it back on the hearth, her movements erratic. Emotion threatened to swell in her throat, should she allow it.

_Because he found you_, a betraying voice whispered despite her mental attempts to repress it. _Because he came for you when you thought it was too late, that you were beyond finding._

_But...so...you are indebted to him? That is not right either...that's not...We are..something more.._

She exclaimed in disgust at the way her thoughts were running, and, in desperation, dug out the small trunk of books that earlier on she had rejected. Hume may have been dull but he was better than being left alone with such thoughts! She wrenched open the book in a driven eagerness and forced her eyes to scan the page. But no diversion was to be found there; each sentence was monotonously similar to the one proceeding it. If this was the book that Uncas had learned to read from, she could forgive him for not associating words with enjoyment. She read Part 1 out of a sense of duty and a need to distract herself, and when it was finished, at least, she felt calmer, even if she couldn't recall anything she'd read.

By afternoon she was too lonely and melancholy to do much more than curl up on her bed, pull the furs around her, kick off her slippers, and let the fire crackle softly in the background while she closed her eyes and attempted to nap. She didn't think it would work, but she must have been more tired than she realized, because when she awoke again the light in the cabin had waned noticeably and the fire was almost out. And there were still no sounds except for the sighing of the wind in the trees outside, and the occasional crack and rustle of small animals in the underbrush.

_When will he come? _

* * *

Seated comfortably atop the back of the plodding piebald pony, Cora Munro gripped the rope that served as reins for her mount and thought how much easier this type of travelling was, all things considered, than her flight through the forest with Nathaniel. It was by no means luxurious; she was still quite often tired and sore at the end of the day, but as she'd intimated in her letter to Alice of several weeks past, it was a vast improvement upon traversing the ground by foot. And with the passing of each day that brought them nearer to Albany, the journey seemed more bearable, with her knowledge that it would soon be over.

She gazed at Nathaniel's back. His horse was only a few steps ahead of hers, and they were looped together by ropes to ensure he didn't lose her. The ponies were middle-aged, and fairly affable in nature, but one never knew what might spook an animal, and Cora, being an inexperienced rider, had complied gladly with Nathaniel's plan to tie them together.

Clouds scudded along overhead as they travelled; the sky had darkened with the promise of rain but so far it had been holding off. They had been lucky with the weather along the journey, Nathaniel said; though it was cold at nights, and cool during the day, it had been mostly pleasant. Nathaniel was fairly certain they could make it to Albany before the snow flew, if the journey continued to be uneventful. Cora was looking forward to arriving. She sometimes found it hard to believe that she would be a married woman; but on the other hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should be bound to this man whom she had come to care for so much over the past weeks. She more than cared for him; she loved him. And she was ready to devote herself to their life together without any reservations.

Almost. There was Alice to think of, and worry over, after all. She would have preferred to see Alice properly settled; (not that that would have been possible; the colonials here in America would no more accept the mixed-race relationship as valid and legitimate, able to be consecrated in holy marriage, than people back in England.) The current conclusion, that her sister and Uncas simply lived together, was not something that Cora could wholly embrace, either; she couldn't help fearing that Alice was too young to know what she wanted and too fragile to live with it even if she did know. She was still such a girl, barely seventeen! It seemed that in the Indian culture this was an unremarkable age to be partnered off; but all Cora could remember of Alice now when she cast her thoughts upon her was the child she had been not so many years ago.

She held no ill will towards Uncas. She had been speaking the truth when she had told her sister that she believed him to be a fine example of his race; perhaps even one of the best. He had been nothing but courteous in his dealings with either of them and unfailingly helpful. More so than Nathaniel himself at times, she recalled dryly, thinking of some of their heated exchanges while enduring forest travel. But that did not, could not alter the fact that neither Uncas nor Alice seemed to care what a reckless choice made now would do to a future that would not be kind later. They would always be outcasts from any kind of decent society...

Cora repressed these gloomy thoughts with an effort. She sat up a little straighter on the rolling back of the pony and tried to return the direction of her thoughts back to herself and Nathaniel.

A light rain began to fall as they followed the bridlepath through a section of woods, the horses stepping more carefully here. Cora took a moment to draw the hood of her cloak up over her head, though curls escaped it despite her efforts, and suppressed a yawn. There were still a few hours of daylight travel left ahead, and she wanted to be awake and alert for all of them.

* * *

The forest was alive with subdued motion, yet quiet in the pre-evening light. All around, beneath the canopy of trees, the air was still, free from wind or breezes. This had been advantageous to the hunter while he was in pursuit of the young doe; her hyper-sensitive nostrils would otherwise have allowed her to stay well out of his range. As it was, he had only managed to wound her; it hadn't been a clean hit. When he had discovered where she had lain down to bleed to death, he had had to finish her off with the knife. He apologized to the animal. _Nusiwôhtum, quniq_.

After gutting and field-dressing the animal, a fairly swift process, Uncas swung it up over his shoulders and began the long, slow journey back to the cabin. He knew it would be dark before he returned; he was quite a distance away. He had had to be. Deer wouldn't go anywhere near the cabin unless it had been uninhabited for some time; they were put off by the smoke. He had been about to turn around and head back when he'd seen the first tracks late afternoon, and had taken the chance. It was nice to have his quarry so early on, on his first time out, but this would make his return later than planned, and he just hoped that nothing had gone amiss with Alice's day alone at the cabin.

Fortunately the animal was not a large member of her species; he might not have made it back that night had she been a year older or a male of the same age; the extra pounds would have impeded his progress considerably. Even as she was it was not an easy burden. There was not much moonlight to see by, which made his navigation more difficult; and though he had a flawless sense of direction, and knew the entire area as well as one who'd roamed it for most of his youth would be expected to, it was never easy traversing the woods with dead weight atop one's shoulders. On his own, he would have stopped to rest more frequently; there was no shame in resting, but his desire to get back to Alice caused him to break less often and for shorter periods than he might otherwise have done.

By the time he was making his way up the incline to the cabin, he was perspiring, tired, and more than a little bloody. The thought of what kind of picture he might present to Alice having entered his mind, he paused downstream to strip off his shirt and wash up before proceeding into the clearing. The deer carcass he draped skin outwards over one of the A-frames near the house, to be dealt with the following morning. His stomach was growling at the thought of fresh meat. He planned to cut off a slab of it as soon as he had a moment and set it to roasting over the fire, but he needed to check on Alice first, though she would no doubt be sleeping by now.

Discarding his shirt outside and carefully opening the cabin door to set his bag of supplies and gun inside, he entered. The fire was out, and the room cast in darkness, with only a tiny bit of moonlight seeping through the odd crack in the wall, not enough to let him see much. He felt her presence at once, and heard her move and give a tiny squeak, either of alarm or relief, and then she sat up on the bed. Her light hair, impossibly, seemed to shine of its own accord, like a flag in the blackness. "Uncas...?"

He confirmed with a grunt. There was a brief pause and then suddenly she was rushing to him, and, in an action that caught him as completely off-guard as he could ever remember being, throwing herself into his arms. He closed them around her involuntarily, out of reflex, stunned. She had never outright embraced him before; at the wolf camp by the river at night when he had taken her in his arms for a split-second, she had not resisted, but he had never thought she might initiate such an action.

"_Wiyon-ashay_," he murmured, feeling a warm, tender satisfaction building in his stomach at the way she was clinging to him. "Everything all right?"

Alice shook her head violently against his chest. He put one hand against the back of her neck, wonderingly, and then, drawing her away from him for a moment, demanded, "Anything happen?"

She shook her head again, a bit more meekly this time.

He relaxed and said with some severity, "Shouldn't have let the fire go out. And the door wasn't bolted."

They stood there for an indeterminate amount of time, just breathing. Uncas reached down and took her hands and felt that her fingers were icy. He began to rub them gently between his, remembering the time he had first done that.

Alice mumbled something inaudible, her face still buried in his chest, her lips warm against the bare skin. He tried not to notice this, and said, "What?"

"I..I..don't want you to leave me again."

The difficulty with which she said this was utterly disarming.

"Child," he muttered, amused but affected. "Then how are we going to eat this winter?"

"I don't care if we have corn every day!"

"Hm. That mean you don't want any of the deer hanging outside?"

Alice turned her face up to his, and he had to guess at her expression. She said, "There's a deer hanging outside?" as if it were astounding.

"Would have been back sooner, otherwise." Gently, he took her forearms and held her away from him. After the nights spent sleeping apart, the proximity was unexpected and too stirring to be allowed to go on much longer. "Got to get that fire back up."

He did this while Alice watched, and soon the cooling cabin was well-illuminated by the sturdy blaze of a dry pine-fed fire. Alice lingered near the hearth, looking self-conscious and embarrassed as the fire rendered it possible for them now to see each other. Uncas, shooting her a quick glance as he tended the fire, realized she was staring at his unclothed upper half, and he dug out one of his clean shirts to replace the cast-off one and slipped it over his head. Alice ducked her head and looked anywhere but at him as he did this, as if the mere act of dressing were embarrassing.

"Ready to eat?" he asked, straightening. She nodded, though it was far past the time they usually had their evening meal. Uncas took his knife and went outdoors, over to the deer carcass where he carved off a suitably large hunk of flesh, took it to the stream to wash off any lingering detritus and blood, and brought it back inside. Alice's expression was dubious but once he had spitted a couple of pieces and set them to roasting over the flames, she looked as if she might be more amenable to the idea of consuming some.

"Ever had this fresh?" he asked her.. Alice shook her head. They had consumed plenty of the dried version along the journey to and from the wolf camp. She had never had much interest in it then, but he hoped she would like this better. Her body needed some other source of strength than what she was getting from the roots and vegetables.

Uncas sliced off some of the cooked outer portion of the meat that had been delicately darkened, and held it out to her with his fingers, blowing on it slightly to cool it. Juice dripped along his hand and he licked it instinctively. Alice looked a little doubtful. He grinned at her propriety. "Try it."

Alice scuttled forwards in his direction so she was sitting close to where he crouched by the fire, and, with some hesitance, reached out for the chunk of meat with her hand. He pulled it away. Confused, she blinked at him uncertainly. He demonstrated that she should open her mouth. Alice looked shocked, but when he brought the meat closer to her again she parted her lips and received the offering, chewing down on it gingerly.

Uncas himself was ravenous, after hunting all day with no food, and cut off another, larger, slightly more burned portion from the bottom and began to partake of it. After a while Alice must have decided that either it tasted all right or she was too hungry not to care, and asked for more. He continued to cut the choicest parts off the outside as the portion of meat cooked through and gave them to her. When the meat was finished, Alice awkwardly licked off her fingers and gave him a hesitant smile. It warmed his heart to see her make such an obvious gesture of solidarity, and he smiled back at her.

Thus dinner was concluded in a spirit of mutual positivity that they, for all their polite exchanges, had not yet experienced together in the cabin. The crackling of the fire encouraged a sense of closeness, they were full and warm and tired, and yet neither of them made any effort to move to their respective sleeping spaces. Uncas stretched back and pillowed his head behind his hands, rotating his neck to try to work some of the growing stiffness out. He wondered if he might convince Alice to give his muscles a rub but decided he'd better not push the intimacy to that extent yet.

Alice, for her part, sat demurely against the cabin wall, her legs crossed in a pose he'd noticed she'd been consciously practicing. It was funny how she maintained her English demeanour from the waist up.

"You worried about me," he pointed out, as an observation rather than a challenge, because they both knew it was true.

She was silent for a few moments, letting her head fall, and obscuring her skin behind a cloud of hair. When she looked up again, her features were honest. "I thought...I thought you were lost. Or hurt," she amended quickly when he grunted in half-disgust. "I didn't know. It was such a long time to be gone. You said you would be back before dark."

"I could have, but I would have been empty-handed."

Alice drew her legs up against her chest now and scuffed her slippered feet slowly against the rough-hewn floorboards. She continued to look at him and he sensed either a supplication or a stipulation forthcoming. It was slow in arriving, but at last she said, with a sort of commanding desperation, "Promise me you won't go again."

While he'd anticipated she might say something of this nature, given her reaction to him when he'd arrived earlier, he found he couldn't immediately answer. Uncas already knew that it was going to be hard for him to refuse any request she made of him; then again, this hadn't been a request, it had been more of a demand. He said at last, "Not right away. One more time before it snows."

Alice made a tiny grimace of protest. "What will we do with all that meat?"

"There's probably less than you think. It's a young female. Only about a month's worth of solid eating. We'll eat fresh for the next couple of days and then have to dry the rest of it for the first half of the winter. In the new year we'll need more."

"What if you can't get another?"  
"Plenty of smaller animals that make good eating. Rabbit, grouse, squirrel. Easier to come by, too, unless it's a bad winter."

"How will we know if it's going to be a bad winter?"

Her questions amused him. She wasn't usually so talkative in the evenings. Well, a long day spent alone could do that to some people, he supposed, though he personally didn't understand it at all. Then again, to be fair to Alice, she had little to do to keep her occupied so that her thoughts didn't have a chance to get ahead of her. He rarely found himself at a loss for what to do, and had never known any of the females at the camp to be so either, but maybe that was a trait of European women? Not for the first time he wondered if British men purposely attempted to keep their women helpless. Gave them nothing to do but sit up straight and look pretty in a bunch of frills and lace. He shook his head, then realized that Alice was still waiting for him to answer.

"You can't ever know for certain, but there are signs. First freeze, first snow. Animal habits and patterns. Trees. Sun and moon." Uncas became aware as he replied that she was staring at him in bafflement.

"Those all mean things?"

"Not everything comes out of a book, Wiyon-ashay."

"I know," she said, a little crossly. "But it seems so...strange."

"It helps if you have a good memory for seasons past, too. My father. If you ask him he could probably tell you what the weather was like for every season since I was born."

"Can you do that?"

"Since I was born, no," he said, cracking a smile. "I only remember the really unusual years. When Nathaniel and I were kids there was a heavy snowfall one spring season. Or it rained so hard the stream flooded and we had a river. That sort of thing."

"It rains often in England," Alice murmured.

He pushed himself forward and laid another seasoned birch chunk across the fire, unsure whether this was a mere remark or indicative of a desire to talk about her home. He hoped it was the former. He didn't quite feel qualified to discuss England, and he was not sure how to handle the issue of her being homesick if that was what she was. He had no idea what or who she had left behind when coming to their shores, and he could not even offer the promise that he would take her to visit her homeland someday, as he would have been able to had she been a Delaware girl, or a girl from any other tribe here.

Alice must also have sensed the change in mood for she straightened, too, and tried to smile, taking a quick breath. "It's nice and warm in here now."

He shot her a sideways glance and suddenly the words were out before he had a chance to consider them. "Do you miss England?"

_Manto, of course she does, why did you have to go and ask that?_

Alice's gaze fell and she caught her lip between her teeth for a moment, before she replied slowly, "I...sometimes. I miss our nurse...I miss Father."

_She still doesn't know_, he thought. Of course she didn't know; at the time they had all determined to keep it a secret from her, but it was startling now to remember that almost two full moons had passed since they had learned of Munro's death at the bombardment of Oswego, and there had been no definitive conclusion as to what to do with this news as it related to Alice. Nathaniel and he hadn't talked of it since, and he had had no chance to learn Cora's wishes--which were perhaps most relevant, as she was the older sister and head of the family now--on the matter.

It seemed cruel to keep up the pretense or the hope that her father was still alive, especially since the passage of more time was not going to improve Alice's reaction once she learned that they had all known from the beginning. On the other hand, Uncas doubted he possessed the ability to provide the kind of solace she was likely to need upon hearing the news.

Torn, he gazed at her, hoping that she would not continue in the vein of talking about her parent, because he didn't know how much longer he could keep not saying anything then, and he refused to lie to her or offer reassurance that he knew to be false.

But Alice too had fallen silent. Then she suddenly murmured, "Honestly--more than anyone--I miss my sister." Her voice trembled towards the end as she said this.

He moved then, closing the small space between them easily and quietly, taking hold of her shoulders and drawing her into his arms. "I know that." The bond between the two girls had been apparent the first time he'd seen them. The way the icy-eyed older sister had kept the scared younger one behind her, as protective as a mother bear.

"We've never been separated this long," Alice said, her words slightly muffled, as her arms went, though more hesitantly this time, around his neck.

"I know," he said again, feeling the inadequacy of it. "Sssh. It's getting late. You should get some rest."

She made a contradictory sound. "I've been resting all day."

"Right," he said, sighing, and shifted her around so that he had his back to the wall and she was snuggled up to his side, much as they had been most nights in the forest. Alice let her hand slip down from his neck to rest for a moment near his collarbone. The coiled bracelet he'd given her and which she still wore was cool against his skin.

They lay thus, listening to the crackle and murmur of the fire, and despite Alice's protestations that she hadn't been sleepy, it was not very long before her body slackened and she was breathing gently against him. Uncas, too, closed his eyes and, tired as he was, let himself fall into a light sleep, as he always did, ready to be wakened at any moment should an unfamiliar sound come from outside or anything else unexpected occur. And a few hours later, when the morning cold began to seep through the walls of the cabin, he rose, untangling Alice's arms and legs from him and carrying her gently to her bed, where he laid her down, covered her up with furs and stayed at her side for a few moments, thinking, before returning to the hearth and his own sleeping space.

In the morning, Alice woke with the uneasy sensation that she had again been deserted, but she could hear outside noises, and what sounded like some kind of sawing. She took a moment to rub sleep from her eyes and rose, going to drink water to quell her thirst before throwing her travelling robe over her shoulders and stepping outside.

Uncas was by the fire pit, which had a fire going in it, and was again working with some sort of structure fashioned out of green poles. Alice tried to avoid looking at the bloody carcass behind him, from which the dead animal's head and hooves still dangled limply, though it had been gutted. She felt a queasiness building in her stomach. It had tasted well enough last night, but she still didn't like to see evidence of its animal-ness.

"What are you doing?" she asked, coming a little closer so that she didn't have to speak too loudly. She felt as if it were a question she often asked him, but she had a lot to learn.  
"Have to smoke it today," Uncas said.

"It smells different," she said, curiously, referring to the smoke from the fire, which did indeed have a dissimilar fragrance to it than whatever wood they used to burn in the cabin fireplace.

Uncas replied briefly, "Hickory," but gave her an approving glance.

She smiled, rather proud that she was beginning to pay attention to such things.

She wandered off then to complete her morning ritual, use the privy, and wash up at the stream. The sky was gray overhead this morning, no sun in evidence, but the air had a pleasant quality to it nonetheless.

Alice returned to the clearing and sat down on a rock to watch the meat-smoking process. It turned out to be lengthy and rather boring. Once Uncas had quartered the deer, a process she looked away for, and discarded the parts he didn't need to be burned later, he set about slicing the meat into thin sections and draping them over the smoking structure. Upon his instruction and explanation she brought out the pot from the kitchen and they filled it with chunks of raw meat that would later that day become a stew, once some beans and root vegetables were added to it. Despite her claim of the previous day, Alice was glad they had meat and did not at all desire to eat corn every day for the rest of the fall and winter seasons.

Uncas said they would be keeping the fire going for the rest of the day, as the smoking process took a long time if done properly, and that he would have to spend most of the time outdoors keeping an eye on it, so it fell to Alice to prepare the stew they had talked of earlier. Around midday she set about doing so. She filled the pot with water, put it at the indoor hearth to begin slowly simmering, and then investigated the garden outside. It was too late in the season to yield much, and the soil here (Uncas said) never gave them much under the best of conditions, but she found some large though mealy carrots, some straggling onion tops, and a one rather sad turnip. These vegetables she washed at the stream and with Uncas's second best knife she managed to cut them carefully into manageable pieces and add them to the pot of meat. It actually looked appetizing once the various flavours began to meld together and the earthy, meaty smell began to permeate the cabin

In the afternoon they partook of the stew and Uncas said it was good, which praise delighted Alice, who couldn't quite believe she had successfully managed to make something which she also thought had a pleasing taste. The root vegetables were past their prime and too chewy but this did not spoil the effect of having such a warm, filling meal that burst with flavour from the brown meat juice.

The rest of the day they spent outside together, under a gray sky, surrounded by the falling leaves scattered around the clearing, blanketing it in a rug of orange and gold.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite her desire to appear as civilized and as cultured an English lady as she had been on her first visit to Albany in the summer, Cora knew she no longer quite looked the part. Though while travelling she had worn the buckskin dress and robe supplied at the camp, she had changed back into her English dress on the last day before arriving at Albany. As it had been washed multiple times and ill-treated, its condition had deteriorated sadly from its original state (not to mention its lack of hoops), and moreover, she had no cap, but nothing could be done about that now. She settled for washing in cold river water as much of her person as she could stand, and managed to tie her hair up in an awkward bun, but the overall effect was, she knew, not really presentable, though Nathaniel told her she looked fine.

Cora knew that their situation was unique and she could hardly be blamed for the condition of her clothing, yet she still fretted inwardly at the stares she received from the fort colonials as they led their pack ponies through the streets that early November midafternoon. Her skin was darker from exposure to the sun, though she was still pale in comparison to Nathaniel, who could have passed for Indian at any time except for his turquoise eyes.

They went directly to the Tontine Coffee House; the most prestigious building of its kind in Albany. After some hazy recollections by Cora and some questions posed by Nathaniel to passing gentlemen as to its exact location, they arrived at the corner of Wall and Water Street. The Tontine was an imposing, multi-level building, with many people going in and out, and the center of much activity. Nathaniel obtained rooms for them after some examination by one Mrs. Schuyler, who was hard-put to recognize Cora from their stay earlier that summer, and now travelling with an unrelated man instead of her sister. After an explanation of the circumstances which had led them to come there, where many of the more awkward details were carefully omitted and altered, they managed to win Mrs. Schuyler's sympathy and understanding and were able to go directly upstairs to their rooms. Cora was thrilled to have the promise that their trunks, which had been put in storage after no word had come as to what to do with them, would be brought to her room tomorrow. In the meantime, Mrs. Schuyler, looking askance at Cora's outlandish attire, promised to send up an entire change of clothing for her to wear until then.

Nathaniel left Cora at her room with a wink and a promise to see her at dinnertime; they could not, obviously, spend unaccompanied time together in their unmarried state.

The rooms had individual, interior baths, which, once Cora was alone and in possession of her new clothing, she immediately took advantage of. It was bliss to finally be able to sink into a tub of warm water, laced with scented rose oils. Along the journey she had been unable to do little more than wash her extremities as they passed rivers and other bodies of water, and her hair, not at all. Now she luxuriated in getting clean, scrubbing her lank hair between her fingers and applying the cake soap vigorously to every inch of her skin. She spent close to an hour in the bath, until the water was gray and no longer warm, before reluctantly stepping out and swathing herself in the huge pieces of clean starched linen that passed for towels. Then she dressed herself in her new clean clothes: a shift that was delightfully scratchy, a simple petticoat and overskirt, and a jacket that buttoned modestly and crisply at her neck. It was not the height of fashion, more suited to a Dutchwoman in service than a daughter of an English colonel, but it was clean and tidy and Cora was grateful to have it. There were even leather shoes with buckles, not new and not quite the right size for her feet but decent to be seen in public with, which was much more than could be said for the ones she'd come in. She thought wistfully of Alice; if they were together, she would be helping Alice with her own toilette.

When at last she left the comfort and privacy of her room to go down for dinner, Nathaniel met her outside and she was so shocked to see how well he looked that she stared with her mouth open for a full few moments. Of course, he was clean, but he had also shaved, his dark shiny hair was neatly pulled back and he was wearing a proper English long coat and trousers.

He smiled at her astonishment. "Did you think I was going to keep my forest clothes, Miss Munro?"

"I...well...yes," she admitted, laughing a little. "Nathaniel. You look...like a gentleman."

"Careful," he warned. "That's straying very far from compliment territory into the sphere of insults."

She giggled despite the passing of another couple in the hallway, both elaborately coiffed and powdered, who cast them disapproving looks. She waited until the two had descended the stairs and then said, "Honestly. You look wonderful."

"Thank you." He inclined his head, and then added with faux-gallantry, but with a twinkle in his eye that let her know he meant it anyway, "As do you."

"I look like a serving-woman," Cora objected, though she knew she was quite presentable.

"But a very adorable and proper serving-woman." Nathaniel held out his arm for her and together they descended the stairs, rather unconsciously mimicking the posture of the couple who had preceded them. "What would you like for dinner, Miss Munro?"

"Anything that's not jerky," Cora said, half under her breath as they entered the dining room and were met with a vast blend of competing aromas, all of which were very appealing.

Dinner was a wonderful affair, filled with an array of the food that Cora had been dreaming about for weeks, all of it meeting or exceeding her expectations to the extent that when the hour was over she was so contented that she wanted nothing more than to sit back and enjoy a cup of claret and talk leisurely with Nathaniel. She barely noticed the other couples around, though it was strange to have the constant hum of other conversations going on around them. But she found, after a full belly and a taste of the heady wine, coupled with the ongoing fatigue of the travel, she longed to tumble into a proper bed with sheets and sleep the rest of the evening away. Nathaniel noticed her blinking at one point in the evening and rose, smoothly, saying under his breath, "I think you've had enough society for today, miss," as he escorted her upstairs, leaving her with a chaste kiss on the cheek at her door, exhorting her to bolt it properly before she slept.

That night, in the featherbed that was every bit as comfortable as she'd imagined it being, was the perfect conclusion to the evening, and she had a sweet, dreamless sleep from early evening until late morning the following day, undisturbed by the town noises rising from the streets below.

* * *

_Beaver Moon (November)_

Now the promise of winter was definitely in the air, and even Alice could see it, in the delicate fingers of ice stretching out from the stream bed edges, to the frosty fog of her breath in the mornings, to the daily increase in their use of the wood pile. They were now faithful about keeping the indoor fire constantly attended, for the temperature in the cabin chilled too quickly not to. Venturing outdoors was less enjoyable and less frequent, at least in Alice's case. Though the days were still lovely with the last bits of splashed color in the trees, and often a vibrantly blue sky, the evening advanced with a menacing speed that foretold of even shorter days once the snow came.

Alice grew a little nervous as the days passed, remembering her request of Uncas that he not go hunting again and leave her alone so long, but also recalling that he had told her he would need to go one more time before the snow, which surely couldn't be far off. Uncas himself made no mention of it, but every evening when he stretched before the fire, or went to do something with his hunting supplies she feared that he would comment that the next day he would be away again.

They had eaten well this month, consuming much of the deermeat, and finished up the last of the vegetables before frost claimed the garden for its own. Alice had picked the remaining tea leaves to be dried for winter, sad to see how few were left. She would have to ration her tea consumption now. Uncas had taken her out one afternoon to a small shallow lake an hour's trek south, where they had harvested a bag's worth of brown, shiny wild rice; its chewy nutty flavour made a nice change from corn, and they had that several times a week. There were beans brought from the wolf camp, and dried fish, but Alice often wondered if the remaining food supplies they had would last the entire winter. What they had stacked up on the pantry shelf seemed like so little, even though they often only bothered with two meals a day now that there was so little light; a midmorning meal, and an early evening meal around about the time that it started to get dark.

Uncas had built yet something else for Alice's benefit; an L-shaped movable partition for one end of the cabin so that baths could be had, or clothes changed, in privacy. The construction also worked to trap the heat in the area nearest the fire, so it made for, if not a pleasant bathing experience, a bearable one. In the mornings when Alice wanted--usually not more than once a week because it was such a labor-intensive undertaking--he would haul in half a tub of water from the stream, which would be left most of the day near the fire until it reached a temperature approaching that of the cabin air, and then Alice would pour in several kettles' worth of hot water. This caused the temperature of the bath to be endurable, even warm if she took the time to put in extra hot water, which she rarely bothered to do because it took so long. Then she would pull in her dress to wash, and wear her secondary outfit while the dress dried overnight, spread out in front of the fire. It was a time-consuming routine, but became easier once they fell into the pattern of performing it. Alice could never get completely used to the notion of bathing in the same room as someone other than her sister, and a male at that, but Uncas was always careful to stay out of her way and give her at least the illusion of privacy if not the actuality of it.

The days passed uneventfully, and with few troubles. Uncas still rose before Alice, retired after she did, and thus fulfilled the majority of anything that needed to be done, whether it was food preparation, firewood organization, the hauling of water, or any kind of maintenance that the cabin required.

Often Alice, who was still working her way through Hume's book of philosophy, read for a while in the afternoons, while Uncas carved a utensil or some new trinket for her (he had made her a new comb when some of the teeth of the first one had split from use, and was working on another wooden bracelet for her other wrist). Uncas, though he could read, had no apparent desire to, though he seemed to enjoy listening to her read aloud. Alice was beginning to find that, as uninspiring as she had originally found the material, this was becoming one of her favorite times of day. She found that the lilt and pattern to the philosopher's words, once verbalized, helped to keep her mind sharp. Otherwise, it was too easy to fall into a sort of mental stupor, having nothing to do but only sleeping, eating, and carrying out physical tasks.

One afternoon, when she had been reading out loud for a short time by the aid of a lit candle (the firelight was no longer enough to provide adequate light in the afternoons), her eye caught the title of the next passage, entitled: _Sect. XI Of the amorous passion, or love betwixt the sexes. _She scanned quickly over what followed it:

_Of all the compound passions, which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than that love, which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us an uncontestable argument. `Tis plain, that this affection, in its most natural state, is deriv'd from the conjunction of three different impressions or passions, viz. The pleasing sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness or good-will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be explain'd from the foregoing reasoning. The question is how the bodily appetite is excited by it._

Uncas glanced up at the sudden silence. "Too dark?" he inquired mildly. He was crouched by the hearth twisting fibers together to make a long twine.

"N-no," Alice stammered, feeling a blush spread upon her cheeks, and hearing the unnaturally high pitch of her voice. How could she possibly read such a passage aloud to him? Bodily appetite, indeed! It was embarrassing enough to read about passion at all.

"Tired?" he persisted, glancing at her quizzically.

She should have had the presence of mind to demur, and then simply turn the page and skip to an appropriate part, but instead, she shook her head and just stared at him, unable to decide what to do.

Uncas put down the twine he'd been twisting and came over, casually, to her side. Alice was seized by an irrational desire to throw the book into the fireplace, just to get it away from her. He reached out and took the book from her nerveless hands, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Want me to read?" he said, staring at the page.

"No!"

Alice buried her face in her hands, suddenly feeling a storm of emotion threatening to envelop her. She had come to believe she had been doing so well in the past weeks, able to go through each day without her mind asking her troublesome questions about what she was really doing here; able to go to sleep each night without allowing herself to think of how much warmer and pleasant it would be to curl up next to the young warrior she was living with; and those things, all those feelings she was trying to repress had come rushing back. She should have known this was hopeless.

Uncas gave a grunt of amusement mingled with mystification, and began, "Of all the compound passions--"

Alice sprang up from her cross-legged position on the bed with a speed she hadn't known she possessed and clapped a hand over his mouth, though his deep laughter bubbled past it. She had to reach up to do it; he was so much taller than she was. Uncas let the book slide on to the bed, but neither of them noticed. His eyes said something to her, and she felt his warm breath against her palm. His hands went slowly around her waist, and she felt her entire body shiver at the contact. She was terrified that if she took her hand away he would kiss her, and yet..she wanted him to.

For a few seconds they stood, lost in each other's eyes; and it was just at that moment that, with a positively deafening crack, the front door slammed open, sending a gust of cold evening wind into the cabin.

Alice jerked back from Uncas as fast as she had gone to him, her cheeks burning in multiple quantities of fright, desire, and embarrassment. Uncas had, in the same breath, swung her behind him, so that she almost fell to the bed--and indeed, to whoever was at the door it must have looked as if he had knocked her there.

Chingachgook's unannounced arrival was nearly as terrifying to Alice the second time as it had been the first. Later, she was only thankful she hadn't screamed this time, though she had been very close. Uncas relaxed at once, of course, though his demeanor suggested he was just as taken aback and caught off guard as Alice had been.

"_Nohsh..wiqômun, suqish_." Awkwardly Uncas welcomed his father into the cabin.

"I am already in," Chingachgook replied in English. He looked tired, even as his alert eyes took in the two of them, his son's failure to hear him coming, Alice shrinking in humiliation on the bed, the state of the cabin. "And I am hungry."

Uncas glanced back at Alice and with his eyes and head communicated both request and command. She slid off the bed and, surprised that she didn't feel resentful--perhaps she was still too startled to--went over to check the progress of their evening meal in the pot by the stove. Fortunately it was substantial tonight, fish stew and there was a flat cornbread that had baked among leaves by the coals. She would have been truly mortified had they had nothing to offer Uncas' father, who must have been traveling for most of the past week to reach them.

Having no appetite for the food, and wanting to leave most of it for Chingachgook, Alice merely nibbled on a little of the bread as they had dinner together. She noticed that Uncas also ate less than normal in deference to his elder's need to replenish his energy levels with hot food. Chingachgook ate without much comment, mopping up the remainder of the stew at the bottom of the pot with a corner chunk of bread.

"How was it, Father?"

"Good," Chingachgook answered.

"Alice made it." Uncas said this matter-of-factly but Alice felt a warmth of pride bloom in her stomach.

Chingachgook grunted, then eyed her for a few moments before addressing Uncas in their native language. Uncas' reply was short, deferential.

Alice, aware that they were likely to continue discussing her whether she wished it or not, decided she should take her leave as best she could. She rose, and said a little uncomfortably, "I'm very tired. I think I shall go to bed."

Uncas also rose, with alacrity and an air of relief, as if this had been a wise decision. He carried over the L-partition and repositioned it around her bed, explaining in a low tone that she would probably sleep better with the visual barrier, and bade her good night. Alice thanked him, glad of the privacy the partition afforded her. Though she doubted if she would be able to get to sleep easily with the two of them talking, at least now she could pretend she was in a different room.

Father and son sat by the hearth of the fire, watching a thick chunk of red pine burn through to its core, and the smoke that was swallowed quickly and efficiently upwards through the chimney.

"Camp moved on?" Uncas inquired.

Chingachgook grunted. "South for the winter." He reached into his shirt and extracted from one of its many pockets, a small flat package wrapped in coarse animal skin and tied with twine. He passed it to Uncas and, as his son accepted it, nodded his head in the direction of Alice's enclosed space. Uncas understood it must be a letter.

"Lucky timing. Runner came up from Wampanoag way just before I headed out here."

"Good to get news of them," Uncas observed. If it was intended for Alice, though, he wasn't going to open it, though his father might already have scanned the contents. "Think they've reached Albany by now?"

"Depends on how the dark-haired girl held up. Laid up your winter meat yet?" Chingachgook eyed him sharply.

"A doe, last spring's." Uncas avoided the look of censure he knew he was being delivered, and picked up a twig from the floor and tossed it in the direction of the fire.

"She's been keeping you too busy with housework?"

Uncas locked his jaw and refused to be offended. "I'm going again," he said steadily.

"Already freezing. Looks like I arrived right in time." The older Mohegan's tone was scornful. "Supplies are outside, I figured you'd need extra since she doesn't know how to gather anything, and it's going to be a long winter."

"Are you staying for it?" Uncas asked, careful not to let any misgivings creep into his voice.

"Stay as long as I need to get the lay of the land," his father replied cryptically. "Long enough to find you some meat." He rose without warning and went to inspect the contents of the pantry, returned frowning. "How d'you expect to feed a family on that?"

"Father! There's only two of us," Uncas muttered. "We don't eat above two meals a day."

"No wonder she has no color in her."

Uncas wondered if his father sometimes forgot Alice, being English, naturally had pale skin. Although Alice had always been paler than Cora. He kept his mouth shut, refusing to be baited. He knew they had been eating well enough; he had seen to that.

"How is it with the two of you?" Chingachgook said, watching him keenly again.

_Well, it was going well enough right up till about you showed up_, Uncas thought, and felt a touch of guilt for such unfamiliar, unfilial musings.

"Fine," he said, neutrally.

Chingachgook leaned forwards and cocked his head with the attitude of an attentive squirrel. "Are you sharing her bed?"

He should have anticipated the question; at the very least, he was used to his father's blunt manner of questioning, looking for facts only, not interested in prevarication, but since there lay in Chingachgook's face no trace of what the desired answer would be, that, more than anything, made Uncas uncomfortable to answer it.

"No," he said at last, unable to lie.

The older man relaxed back on his haunches, looking thoughtful. "That's good. She is not ready."

"Father--" Uncas cringed mentally. "I don't need to be told this."

"You are young," Chingachgook said, his manner dismissive. "The young have difficulty controlling their passions. That is natural. I don't expect you to have the wisdom of one twice your age. I am simply telling you to wait. She is the kind that, harvested too early, will bear only sour fruit till the end. You are young, and she is too young. You will wait." He spoke rather lightly now but his gaze was intense. "Do you understand?"

Uncas indicated his assent and stared at the fire. He felt an urge to tell his father that he knew perfectly well that Alice was not ready. He could see it every day in her words and behavior towards him. Sometimes she moved so innocently, even the way she touched him was innocent enough, the way of a child rather than a woman, although there had been moments--like this evening--where he had known there was more than that, and known that he might even have partaken of it with no objection from her, but...

"Good."

He realized that as far as his father was concerned the topic was closed, at least until such point as the other man desired to bring it up again; this was the prerogative of parents, one that just had to be accepted without argument.

Chingachgook shifted closer to the fire and grunted with the effort, murmuring something about his middle-aged bones being cold, and telling Uncas to go bring him a hide. Night had fallen since they had eaten dinner, and so there was nothing to do but retire.

And while the older warrior fell asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed, the young couple remained awake in their separate spaces. Uncas could almost always tell from the quality of Alice's breathing whether she were truly asleep or not--though it sounded at the moment like she was trying to breathe as if she were, it was not fooling him.

Though it was familiar, even vaguely comforting, to have his father with him again, something was different. Now that Alice was here, now that they'd spent so many days establishing their own patterns and routines that only involved the two of them. He hoped his father's appearance wasn't going to cause Alice to revert to her formal ways that she had just begun to start abandoning (he felt).

_Of all the compound passions_....inexplicably popped into his head. He smiled into the crackling firelight. How adorable had she been, trying to prevent him from reading what had caused her so much obvious embarrassment? Alice herself was like a book at times, to him at least, with everything that she was thinking and feeling written right across her face.

_Wikun tupkuw_, he thought to both of them, _good night. _To his father and to the girl who, on the other side of the cabin in her bed that he had been forbidden to yet share, was still pretending to be asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Being in Albany as Nathaniel's wife was so fascinating and different from what had gone before it that Cora could scarcely believe all that she experienced during the course of most days.

The procedure of obtaining a marriage license so that they could be legally wed had been a simple enough one, completed early on in their stay in the growing city. Thereafter, they continued to room at the coffee house/hotel on Water Street, only substituting their small two rooms for one larger suite. Nathaniel had arranged with Mrs. Schuyler to stay at a slightly discounted rate for the entire winter. It would still amount to a sizable sum when they left, and Cora was somewhat concerned when she considered the cost, as she hadn't thought that Nathaniel was in possession of any money, but he had told her not to trouble herself over it. She reassured herself with the realization that at least, now she had their trunks (which contained no actual money but plenty of her personal goods and jewelry, some of which were quite valuable), she had something of her own to depend on. Cora had never been especially materialistic, but if the last month of her summer spent in the wilds of the American woods had taught her anything at all, it was to appreciate that which was left to her now.

Every morning they slept unfashionably late, rose and dressed for lunch only if they felt like it, and otherwise had hot meals brought to their room, which practice the housemaids under Mrs. Schuyler's tutelage disapproved of, but they didn't care. Then in the afternoons, if the weather was fair, they often explored the shops, markets, and streets of the town. Cora particularly liked to stroll along the waterfront and see the busyness of the harbor, with its multitude of ships coming and going. It was fun to walk arm in arm with Nathaniel, whose height, dark head (which differed from the current fashion dictating that males be elaborately wigged) gained plenty of stares from curious men and, Cora suspected, jealous women. She was surprised to discover that while she had feared this kind of attention before arriving in Albany, she was finding it more pleasant than not.

In the evenings, they dined early at the hotel, since it was included in their fee for room and board, and then retired early to their suite to talk and enjoy the other benefits of married life. This, too, was surprising. Cora, before her first wedding night encounter with Nathaniel, had known little of the mechanics of what went on in bed between husband and wife (she suspected that Alice knew even less, and this rather concerned her; she recalled thinking, after the first time, that Uncas and Alice had better wait on such things until such time as she could counsel her sister as to what to expect). It was the sort of thing that seemed to improve with practice, though, and while their early attempts were somewhat uncomfortable and embarrassing, time and experience proved to be as good a teacher as any.

So she was happy. Not ridiculously so, to be sure; there were times, especially when she thought of the couple back at the cabin who were sure to be in more trying circumstances than they currently were, and when her worries for them overtook any other thoughts of contentedness in her head. At such times, Nathaniel was understanding; he left her alone if he sensed she needed some space, but more often, he was with her, but quiet, not demanding any of her attention, not insisting that they discuss anything unless she indicated that she wanted to. It set her at ease with him, this new husband, knowing that she was allowed the same amount of freedom and space that he seemed to desire for himself. Nathaniel too, though he was usually jocular and talkative when they were out and about, had his moments in their room where he seemed to fret against the constraints of their impractical clothing, even against the physical bonds of the walls holding them in a community, and at such times he could not be induced to smile, and Cora had learned not to attempt to make him.

Rarely a day went by that Nathaniel didn't give her something; once, an extravagant new dress to supplement her wardrobe from England (which was sufficient, but by no means extensive); sometimes some lace or ribbon the brightness of whose color she had exclaimed over in a shop; sometimes a pastry or some other sweetmeat. Often it was something just as simple as a peculiar new flower or other small curiosity that he had picked up while outdoors.

So autumn, and their honeymoon, passed quickly in a pleasant, indulgent fashion.

* * *

Alice awoke to the now-familiar aroma of the tea leaves steeping, sending bitter tendrils of scent seeping throughout the cabin. She was slightly disoriented by it at first, since she'd become so accustomed to having her tea in the evenings. Sitting up, and taking a moment to scrub fingers through her hair restoring it into some form of order, she slid out of bed and peered around the partition.

"Slept late this morning," Uncas observed. He was pouring out some of the tea into their wooden cup, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell.

"I...I was tired." Alice hugged herself, looking around the cabin. Chingachgook was not in attendance. She took the cup as Uncas extended it to her, and sipped slowly. "Did you eat already?"

He gave the grunt of assent. "Father brought lots of supplies."

"Where is he now?"

"Hunting."

Alice sat down at the table, feeling the ache in her hips that never quite abated after an entire night spent on the bed without a mattress. "Isn't he tired?"

"He slept," Uncas said, as if one night would suffice after days of non-stop travelling. For them, it did, she realized. "He wants to have lots of food on hand."

"What did he bring?"

Uncas gestured with his head to the direction of the pantry, which, Alice discovered upon investigation, had been heavily replenished. She stared in wonder at all the new sacks and bundles, unable to believe how those had all been carried by one man. Uncas himself had brought quite a large supply from the camp when they had first come, but this seemed like much more. There was a whole new bag of corn, and some of beans, nuts, seeds, and dried fish. None of these excited her greatly, but she saw a small pot of honey and even a small amount of dried blueberries. With the blandness and repetition of their diet, she had been longing for sweet foods, and could easily imagine how much better the flat coal-baked cornbread would taste with lacings of honey drizzled atop it. Or a bit added to her tea to take away the medicinal quality.

She returned to the table to sit and finish her tea. As she was taking the last swallow, Uncas came over to her side and placed something in front of her, his fingers lingering on it as he did so. Alice looked at the worn paper at first not knowing what it could be; it had been so long since she'd seen writing parchment. Then she saw her name in her sister's delicate, though now slightly smeared handwriting and her heart leaped. She glanced quickly up at Uncas.

"From Cora....? Where did it...How..."

"Father brought it. It was sent up last month." Uncas rested a hand for a moment on her shoulder, touching her hair, though she was too distracted to really register the touch, and then he walked out of the cabin, leaving her alone with her sister's letter.

Alice unfolded the missive, both excited and fearing to see its news. She scanned the date, running her thumb over the blotchy ink--it felt as though so much time had passed between its writing and now. Reading the letter through once quickly, to ascertain that nothing was amiss, she then read it again at a slower pace almost at once, but stopped towards the end, at the lines: _I wish I could see you_.

Tears filled her eyes, rendering the writing even more blurry than it had been. The benign silence of the still, empty cabin was stifling, as Alice tried not to hear her sister's voice in her head, and failed. _Cora. Where are you? What are you doing? Why am I stuck here without you? _

Self-pity swelled and overtook her, rendering her incapable of doing anything for a few moments but putting her head down on the rough wood of the table, her tangled hair spilling around her, and muffling her sobbing into her sleeve. That she had chosen all this did not make bearing it any easier. It was too late for regrets.

It was a while before she was able to summon up enough self-control to wipe her face, refold the letter and stand. She didn't want to be inside right now, she needed some fresh air if she were to gain perspective. Alice quickly threw her cloak over her shoulders and left the cabin. The sky was gray and foreboding, filled with clouds. At the sight of Uncas outside in the garden, however, the momentary sense of composure she'd acquired while indoors began to melt, and she felt the tears start again. Uncas came over, his forehead wrinkled in slight concern. "Everything okay?"

She nodded, realizing he too must want to know the contents of the letter, to know what, if any news, there was of his brother, though she didn't feel up to sharing it just yet.

Uncas relaxed slightly, resting his hands on the top of the hoeing implement. He had been turning under the last of the straggly vines and weeds for the winter.

Her throat closed, and anything else she might have said, might have told him, was washed away, drowned by the thickness of her emotions. Alice, fingers still clutched round the letter, hurried down the path towards the stream, with no real purpose in mind other than to get away from the cabin for a while. She needed to be alone, needed to be able to think, and breathe, and perhaps cry for a bit more before she could return.

Uncas watched her go and wanted to go after her, but knew that wasn't what she wanted, and that he would probably be rejected if he so did. He finished up hoeing the last of the garden, burying the vines and roots under the sandy soil to lie there for the winter, eventually to re-supply the soil with the nutrients it badly lacked up here. Its yield had been especially poor this year, for some reason. Often they had at least a few pumpkins or squash to supplement the rest of the food supplies in the pantry, but all that the garden had provided of that nature these year was a few spindly gourds that were mostly stringy guts and no meat.

Every sign foretold a harsh winter.

He spent a while longer outdoors, waiting for Alice to eventually come trailing back; in this cooler weather, she never ventured far, usually only going outside to visit the privy and her stops at the stream were equally short. But Alice did not reappear and after some time he began to be concerned despite himself. The memory of her disappearing at the wolf camp had never been erased and was often present at the edges of his mind, as a reminder of how fragile her existence in his life could be. How easily removed, as if it had never been. She still knew almost nothing of survival. On her own, she was like a newborn kit left to fend for itself without any natural strength or knowhow. While her innocence was something that had originally drawn Uncas to Alice, he knew now that it was actually a potentially fatal aspect of her self. It just meant he would always have to be on guard.

Uncas followed the path in the direction of the stream, light-footed as always. Alice he spotted almost at once. She was sitting at the edge of the water, her face shrouded by a blanket of hair, and, though her cloak was about her shoulders, for some reason she had her bare feet in the water as if it were summer and she were hot. He was at her side in moments. "What are you doing?"

"Mm?" Alice looked up rather blankly at him as though she'd been deep in thought. She made no move to extricate herself from the stream water, which was icy at this point, but instead gazed back down into its silvery depths without moving away. "Nothing...."

"You...." For a moment English words failed him and he spoke in Mohegan reflexively. "You little fool." He bent over her and hauled her lower extremities out of the water. "You'll die of cold."

Alice did not resist as he picked her up, instead wrapping her arms in complaisant agreement around his neck as he carried her back down the path. He was grateful for the absence of his father as he brought her back into the cabin, and forewent dropping her on her bed in favor of bringing her directly in front of the fire.

"I'm not cold," Alice protested, though her skin was, in fact, freezing, so if she didn't feel cold that would have been alarming in itself.

"Be quiet and sit still." He spoke as severely to her as he was able to, which wasn't very. There was still tea steeping by the hearth, though it had probably gone even more bitter by now considering the length of time it had been left there, but he poured her some more anyway, added a spoonful of precious honey to it and made her drink it. Alice's mouth curved in pleasure at the new, unfamiliar taste of sweetness.

He sat down beside her after adding another birch to the fire. Birch made the fire leap up quickly and turned the flames all manner of lush colors, purple and pink and blue. They were silent for a while. Then Alice asked softly, "Do you suppose they have reached Albany yet?"

Though he had asked the same question of his father, he now answered firmly, "Yes."

She remained quiet then, and, before very long, Uncas could hear the first few soft drops of rainfall starting, beating out a pattern on the cabin roof overhead. He thought of Chingachgook out in the forest, possibly still in pursuit of that elusive second portion of winter's meat. Alice gave a little sigh, murmuring, "It's raining."

He grunted in acknowledgment of this fact. "Warm enough?"

"Yes." She slid a little closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder in contentment.

Uncas thought then, rather obliquely, of the Webbs. Earlier that summer, Sarah and John Webb had been the only other people living within half-a-week's travel, due south, of their cabin. Their homestead had been built a summer previously, and so they had still been newlyweds when their place had been discovered and torched by raiding tribes looking to please the French. Nathaniel had known them better than Uncas himself had, often staying at their place a night or two now and again, possibly because, Uncas had always thought, they were his only connection to the white world of his birth. He had helped John, who was a beginning farmer, with establishing a small garden--the soil was better there--and had brought them some of their own supplies to help them through while they were getting started. Sarah had been just visibly pregnant the last time Uncas had seen her, in the spring, and on the last trip that Nathaniel had made out, he had made the gruesome discovery of their burned cabin and dead bodies. He'd spoken very little about it, only related the barest details to his brother and father. They had understood that it had hit him very hard, particularly considering the circumstances under which his own birth parents had left him.

Now, Uncas was wondering if there might be value in making the trip himself to the site of the cabin and seeing if there was possibly anything useful or worth salvaging from the remains. Nathaniel hadn't said whether it had been totally obliterated or not. Most likely it had, but he liked the idea of being able to perhaps find something that had some meaning or value for Alice in particular. It was not a trip he could make while leaving her here on her own--it would take most of a week to go there and come back, even at a steady speed and in decent weather--but now that Chingachgook had come, he had thought of going more than once.

The rain fell unceasingly for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Uncas had opened the window to allow the fresh, coppery-scented air into the cabin, and all that was visible were steady sheets of gray rain. It was soporific, and Alice napped by the fire for the afternoon, surrounded by furs. Uncas moved around the cabin, preparing food for the evening, restoring things to order, though there was little enough to do. He would far rather have been pursuing deer with his father outdoors, but he couldn't resent Alice for being the reason he was not.

Still, the lure of the wild was hard to ignore. He sat on the front steps for a while, with the front door open, just breathing in the scent of fall, watching the rain. The scent of the hunt that was only just masked by the blanketing rain.

Chingachgook was not back by nightfall, and Uncas didn't anticipate his arrival, knowing his father would stay out until he'd brought back what he had gone to get. The two of them ate their evening meal in quiet as they were accustomed to doing. Alice was melancholic, no doubt a result of the letter. Earlier she had elaborated somewhat on its contents to Uncas, so that he was satisfied that nothing was amiss with the travelling couple, but they had not really discussed it.

It occurred to Uncas that he might probably tease her about reading some more aloud to him, but she didn't seem like she would be in the mood to appreciate such humorous overtures. So after eating dinner and banking the fire, they simply retired to their respective spaces as they had been inclined to do.

Not until about early morning of the following day did the rain finally slacken and cease, and the sudden absence of sound made the forest surrounding the cabin eerily quiet, with the exception of the gentle dripping from leaves as the ground sucked up the last of the moisture from above. The fire smoked and was fretful.

They ate a late breakfast and were just finishing it up when the older Mohegan warrior returned from his hunt. To Alice's eyes he looked not much different, certainly not as tired as one might expect a person having hunted all day and spent the night in a wet forest to be. She greeted his appearance without much enthusiasm. She continued to feel off-colour since receiving Cora's letter yesterday, and could not summon up any excitement when they went outside to see what he had brought back.

Seeing the massive buck with its multi-pointed antlers did not impress her, nor did the idea of having fresh meat again for dinner. Perhaps it was only the after effects of the rain, but everything seemed dismal and muted; the dark colors of their clothing, the bare trees now free of their foliage, the sky looking like bathwater. The head of the dead animal still lolled from its body and its eyes were glassy and disturbed her.

Alice quickly retreated back to the cabin, where she spent the afternoon drinking cups of honey-sweetened tea and diving into the works of Dryden, hoping she would not there discover anything so provocative as Hume's thoughts on passion. It was difficult to completely block out the sounds of the men outside butchering and smoking meat, but it was good at least to have the entire cabin to herself for those few hours; when she tired of reading, she washed up and swept and dutifully set soaked corn to simmer, thus whiling away the time until dinner and the return of Uncas and Chingachgook indoors. Thankfully they had both washed up at the stream so she didn't have to endure the sight of any blood, though the meat smell lingered, and hung in the air for a while until she became accustomed to it.

Throughout dinner, which was corn and deer roasted on the spit as they had done with the first animal, Uncas and his father only conversed briefly in their language and almost nothing was said to her after Chingachgook instructed her that she must eat a lot in order to keep up her strength. Alice stared at the table and wondered if it were possible to die from boredom and frustration. She chewed and swallowed, barely tasting anything, and now remembered why she had gone, yesterday, to the river, and sat with her feet in the cold water--she'd wanted to feel something, anything, just as long as it meant she was alive.

_Keep up my strength, indeed. What for? I don't need it for anything. All we do here is eat and sleep. I will go mad if I have to be here like this the entire winter!_

Uncas glanced at her occasionally as they ate, maybe even with a sympathetic eye but Alice did not really notice. It was not enough for him to understand what she was going through if he didn't actually do anything to make her days easier, she thought stubbornly.

After eating she excused herself in much the same manner as she had done yesterday and retired to her makeshift room. She wrapped a fur around her shoulders and sat, leaning up against the wall because, though she longed to take refuge in sleepiness, she wasn't at all tired.

Uncas appeared around the corner of the partition, surprising her. For a moment his air was slightly tentative. "You all right?" he said, in a low voice.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say something stiff and dismissive like "Of course", but she shook her head.

He came closer and, somewhat to her surprise, sat on the edge of the bed, his expression a gentle inquiry. Alice gazed at him for a few moments--thinking irrelevantly and not for the first time that his cheekbones were beautifully formed--before lowering her eyes to stare in inchoate frustration at nothing. She would not tell him that she felt neglected by him. She had already suffered through that indignity at the wolf camp (though it was possible that Uncas had never actually figured out that it had been because of her frustration with him ignoring her that she had gone to the river to be alone that night.)

He studied her for a little while before suggesting, "Are you angry?"

"No," she said, spurred into replying.

"You look angry."

"I do not look angry."

"Well you do now," he said with a slight chuckle.

"Go away." For a second she was afraid he would, because even playing a game of question and rebuttal with someone with whom she was slightly annoyed was better than staring at the wall and listening to the fire burn. Fortunately he didn't call this bluff. Instead he leaned over and rested a hand on her lower leg. Alice's eyes widened at this bit of impropriety. Honestly, did the man think he could just touch her whenever he wanted? Was that an unwritten part of their culture or something? Save a person's life, receive access to their body at any time? She wished she could exact the answer from him but didn't quite have the courage.

She edged away from his touch. Morals demanded it. As did her pride.

He stared her right in the eyes, leaned forward just a little more and placed his hand a shade higher.

Alice felt her throat go dry, not because the position of his hand was necessarily any more indecent than it had been before, but because she could hardly fail to see the challenge of such an action. And she wasn't sure how best to respond to it. If she moved again...

"Your father!" she hissed in sudden desperate inspiration.

"Sleeping."

Alice felt a twist of resentment that her chaperone should so quickly have succumbed to slumber. "I could scream," she warned, wondering if they were still playing. He definitely seemed as if he were more amused than serious so far.

"I was faster than you before," he reminded.

It took a moment for that memory to return to her--their first night under the stars, the four of them, and she'd woken disoriented thinking she had been left alone. He had grabbed her to quiet her probably only for a matter of seconds, but she remembered how terrified she'd been.

And how warm his hand on her mouth had been...

And just two nights ago how, in counterpoint, her hand had been against his lips...

She shook the thoughts, settling around her as if they were a blanket, away.

"So," Uncas said, gently, after the silence rested between them for a while. "Now my father is here, I was thinking of going away for a few days. Something I want to see. You'll be all right?"

Alice was not prepared for him to say this, and she had to repeat in her head what she had heard before she could fully comprehend it. _You'll be all right? No, I won't be all right! How could you possibly imagine that I would be all right? _But there was nothing to do but lie, especially since she had been unable to answer his challenge earlier, so this was, in its own way, her response. "Of course," she said, meeting his eyes and hoping that hers were unreadable. "We shall be fine."

With this dismissive reply, she turned, away from his hand and on her side, to glare into the darkness.

Uncas hesitated and then bade her good night, to which she also answered but in such an icy tone it sounded as if it had come from another person's body.

She lay awake for a long time listening to the crackle of the fire and the wind in the trees howling lightly beyond the cabin walls, both sounds seeming repressive, as if they were actual beings trying to send her a message that she could read.


	6. Chapter 6

If there was any food Alice had come to dislike more than mushy corn soup during the past few months, it was probably stewed beans. It was to the unpleasant scent of this cooking that she awoke the next morning. Chingachgook or Uncas must have put them on to cook the night before because the cabin was filled with the aroma. Her nose was twitching from the smell before she was even completely awake.

With an unladylike groan of despair, she slid her legs out of bed and peered around the partition to make sure no one was in any stage of undress (although this had not occurred yet, she did not want to be surprised). Chingachgook was crouched by the fire and he said without looking at her, "_Yôpôwihpwutuk_. Come, eat breakfast."

As it was less a request than a command, Alice did not feel able to politely refuse. Wrapping her robe around her shoulders--the cabin was warm enough that she did not need to do this, but she liked to use it as a shawl anyway--she came over to the fireplace. She accepted the cup that Uncas' father spooned a helping of beans into, but held it without any desire to consume its contents. "Where...where is...?"

"Travelling," Chingachgook said economically.

_Already_? Alice thought. He certainly hadn't wasted any time after letting her know last night. She supposed she was intended to be grateful that he had let her know at all. A shadow of discontentment passed across her face before she thought to hide it, and the Mohegan man read it easily. He cocked a graying eyebrow. "That displeases you?"

She probably would have lied again if it had been his son who had asked her, but it was hard to look into his much older, knowledgeable eyes and create such a falsehood.

"There's just...it seems like there's not much to do when he's gone." Alice was a little surprised at her own honesty.

"You must find things to do. Or make them if you cannot find them. I will show you after you eat." He nodded at her cup, which she still clutched. Under his watchful gaze Alice obediently chewed and swallowed the several mouthfuls of beans, trying not to breathe in through her nose as she did so in order to render them more tasteless. It wasn't very effective.

Once the meal was finished, Chingachgook gave her a knife and instructed her to go outside and fetch a good armful of the rushes that grew by the stream bank. Alice was both irritated by being sent on a mission but pleased despite herself to have something to do. She put on her slippers and fastened her cloak at her throat against the cold, then stepped outside. The air was chill, the surrounding forest damp from yesterday's heavy rain. She had to step carefully on her way to the stream in order not to dampen her slippers too much, as she suspected they would take a long time to dry.

Slicing the rushes was an easy enough task, though she got a few tiny cuts on her fingers from the thin edges of the grasses as she held them awkwardly while sawing through them. The reeds felt pliable yet damp. Once she had a large pile, she gathered them up and returned to the cabin.

Chingachgook had her put the rushes by the fire, presumably to dry. In the meantime, on the table, he had laid out meat and some of the dried berries and nuts he had brought with him earlier that week. He gestured Alice over and showed her, without much verbal explanation, what they were doing. She imitated him in using small round stones to pound the meat until it crumbled and became powdery.

It was a long process, the making of what he callled _pumihkan_. The fibrous, cooked meat under her stone was much slower to disintegrate than that under Chingachgook's treatment. Alice's arms began to ache from the repetitive activity. Yet there was something soothing about the action of it, about the steady thump-thump against the sturdy tabletop, and it was good to feel as if she were accomplishing something, instead of merely feeding herself or sleeping. Chingachgook watched her without appearing to watch her and often corrected small things in the way she was working. He showed her, once the meat was ready, how to crush the berries and nuts into a similar powder, which they then combined with fat drippings collected from last night's deer, to make small, solid bar-like masses. Alice couldn't imagine wanting to eat the gray, greasy finished product, but her tutor seemed pleased with the results and they put the bars away, carefully covered, to dry. He asked her afterwards if she could make it on her own and she said uncertainly that she supposed so, if she had to.

There was something quietly authoritative but yet unassuming about the way Chingachgook fell into his role as instructor; Alice found she wanted to pay attention to what he was showing her and, occasionally, telling her, although she wasn't sure what the purpose of it all was.

After the food preparations were finished they washed up and sat down by the fire. Her task then was to sort through the stream rushes she'd collected and organize them into ones of similar widths and smooth, unblemished quality. She was embarrassed to note that for whatever reason, many of the ones she'd collected were tossed aside without explanation.

Chingachgook was frowning as he began to show her the procedure of forming a base and weaving the rushes in and out to make a connected pattern. "It should not be a man teaching you how to do this," he said brusquely.

Alice wasn't sure what, if anything, to say to that, but curiosity finally prompted her to ask why.

He gave her a look that suggested he was unsurprised by her ignorance. "You ought to have learned it at your mother's side before you'd passed five summers."

"I learned other things," Alice said, with a touch of spirit. "I can play the clavichord, and write, and recite poetry."

"Important skills," Chingachgook accorded, with no apparent irony. "Though I think you can not use them to feed or clothe yourself."

"It was never my father's intention for me to need to." She said this a little more meekly.

Chingachgook said nothing. He passed the started project into her hands and watched as she copied the motions she'd seen him doing. The reeds didn't cooperate. They felt stiff and unyielding in her small cold fingers. Her side of the four-sided basket, if that were what it was to be, began to look loose and uneven. He took her hand and let out a disparaging grunt. Alice looked down at her hand as he turned it over to examine the palm and saw, against his callused brown ones, how white and soft hers looked by comparison, though the skin was nicked in several places.

His fingers rested on her wrist for a few more moments, just below where Uncas' bracelet ended. "Your blood runs stronger than it did this summer, but your hands are still cold."

"I am quite healthy," Alice said. "I have not been sick." She knew she was not strong--certainly she had always known she lacked Cora's robust energy--but resented the constant implication that she was about to fall apart at any moment.

"And you sleep well," he said, though this sounded more like criticism than praise.

Alice wanted to say that there was not much else to do, but kept silent, since she was, at the moment, occupied. Picking up the half-shell of basket again, she resumed work on layering the sides. Chingachgook rose then and left her to finish, adding some more wood to the fire as he moved about the cabin.

Alice was proud to have completed her basket even though, when she was done, it sagged, had gaps, and didn't look like it would hold water or even be used for anything at all, really. She showed it to Chingachgook and all he said was, "Practice," and then tossed it into the fire. Alice felt her mouth drop open in astonishment, but she quickly collected herself, dusted off her hands and set about tidying the remaining rushes into a pile to be practiced on later. Her hands had had enough of weaving for the day. When that was done, and the cabin floor swept, she set about preparing the evening meal, without being told to. Uncas' father would see that she was not completely useless. She made what she had had success with a couple of times before: rehydrated fish and wild rice to accompany it. The food took longer to prepare than she had estimated, however, and it was dark by the time she called him over to the hearth to partake of it, but he did not complain or otherwise comment on the lateness of the hour, and seemed to enjoy his portion of the food. When he had finished he made a brief remark in Mohegan that she somehow understood--perhaps she had heard Uncas say something similar before--meant that he had eaten well.

After dinner Alice picked up the works of Dryden again and, finding her place, read demurely in silence by the fire for a while, feeling that she had led a productive day. Her hands were a bit sore from the unaccustomed activities, but otherwise she felt fine. When she finally retired to bed, shortly after Chingachgook had lain down and almost immediately thereafter fallen asleep in that odd way the Indians seemed to do, she too had little difficulty getting to sleep.

***

The forest welcomed Uncas as he traveled. It was a completely different kind of welcome than when he hunted; now, he was merely passing through, which was in its own way enjoyable; though he never stopped paying attention to what was around him, the act of journeying was not as fatiguing because it didn't require such a constant level of alertness and awakeness. He could move without a conscious effort of will, and occasionally enter into an almost trance-like state that was not possible when actively seeking something or someone. He knew he would make good time. It was cold but not yet bitingly so; the lack of foliage allowed for better vision ahead, and the dampness of the woods made for better footing with the exception of where rocks were involved.

It felt good to be out. Normal. Natural. He knew this was probably the last traveling he'd do before the snows came and rendered them cabin-bound until the first thaws in the spring, so it was to be cherished.

He had made the trip only once before, but the cabin lay almost exactly south of them and a man with a poorer sense of direction and memory than he would have been able to find its location without much difficulty. It took Uncas the better part of two days, sleeping in short stretches for a few hours at night, to reach his destination.

In the early morning hours, the blackened remains of what was still left of the cabin's structure glistened with dew. Some of the clearing's underbrush had shot up in the absence of people or livestock to keep it tramped down, though it had only been a matter of months. The area still tasted, still smelled of death to him. He moved carefully, lightly, around the area, examining the outskirts for any sign of traffic, recent or otherwise, before approaching the center of the clearing. Fallen timbers, half-burned through, had fallen inwards on themselves in a criss-cross pattern, a heap of shiny black. Only one of the walls still stood, that which had held their stone chimney, which was starting to crumble along the top. Uncas picked his way through and around the rubble, eyes and ears intent. He was seeing it not as it was but as Nathaniel must have seen it, fresh from destruction, fresh with fear and terror and suffering, and now that he was seeing it so, he felt an odd sense of restraint, that either whatever he had been looking for was not here, or if it was, it would not be proper to remove it.

When he came across the remains of John and Sarah Webb he had to stop for a moment, look away, then take a long breath of the crisp, life-affirming air. _Manto_....He added a few quiet words for their souls and the soul of their unborn child that they had found peace. Still, it didn't seem like enough to do, or say; so he spent a short time in silent vigil over them.

There might or might not have been anything worth salvaging from the partially destroyed cabin, but Uncas didn't have the desire to investigate any further, and, by the time the morning sun had climbed to its halfway point in the sky, he had started the journey back up north. Though he was thirsty and his water flask was empty he waited for a long time before refilling at any stream, not wanting the strange taste he knew anything nearby would have.

***

Alice found the next few days of Uncas's absence from the cabin more bearable than she had initially thought they might be. Chingachgook was a quiet enough roommate who, after that first day, went outdoors of the mornings, leaving her to sleep in peace, and only required her to spend the afternoons with him in the pursuit of those skills which until now had been untaught to her. She still couldn't make a decent basket, but not for hours of trying and many discarded rushes gathered from the streamside. At least she knew which ones to look for now, and had brought back a selection that he could find no fault with. They made more _pumihkan _bars, adding to their store of winter goods; and by the third batch Alice couldn't tell which ones were hers and which were the creation of her tutor's. Chingachgook also employed her in the sewing of some buckskin pieces, (which she could do tolerably enough although it couldn't really compare to the fine fabrics and thread she had left behind in England, and trying to poke the large bone needle through the tough leather seemed more a question of strength and determination than skill) but that too she succeeded at, producing a new--if unevenly sewn in places--journeybag. They scraped clay from the freezing streambed and brought it in by the fire to warm and mold, and make creations which varied in their practicality and usage, or to be used as sealant/patching in many areas; between cabin logs where tiny spaces had developed, or on the bottom of a leaky basket. Alice was beginning to find it almost enjoyable to see the various usages that common things had, things whose practicality she had given little thought to before, and she hoped (although she would not actually admit it to herself) to be able to show Uncas some of the things she'd learned when he came back.

As they worked together, Chingachgook spoke more frequently, sometimes relaying a short fable to her, and telling her to guess the point or lesson of it, which she never could, which he seemed to find amusing. At other times he gave her small language lessons, which Alice found puzzling because although she obediently mimicked his pronunciation she knew she would never be able to master their tongue; there were too many strange aspirations, odd rules and what seemed to her ridiculously long words. Still, she began to build up a tiny vocabulary, and often wandered about the cabin, or outside, doing various tasks murmuring to herself some of the words she'd remembered from their conversations.

The Mohegan elder took her outside on one of the warmer afternoons and showed her the differences between the trees they used as firewood; which wood was better to burn in the day and which at night, which wood took longer to cure, what were the best sources of kindling, though she should never let the fire go out and so would hopefully not have to use that knowledge at any time. Chingachgook also showed her where to best find the type of vines and reeds that could be easily twisted and braided into twine; and since twine and its larger cousin rope seemed to have no end of applications around the cabin, Alice also spent some of her evening hours twisting and braiding lengthier pieces to create long cords. These, like the baskets, she needed practice with, and ended up throwing some away into the fire herself in disgust. But she braided a neat little belt she was quite happy with, and used that to fasten her cloak about her waist to keep her warmer when venturing outdoors.

On the fifth evening she inquired of Chingachgook when they might expect Uncas back but he would not commit to a definite answer, saying only that his son would return when he desired and at the earliest another evening yet.

***

The young Mohegan warrior was progressing up a steep, heavily wooded slope that was oddly littered with fallen logs, as if a windstorm had blown through the area recently, when his senses alerted him to something. Perhaps it was a scent, perhaps it was only a whisper caught on the breeze. Perhaps it was nothing at all of import, but he still noticed it, and for a full minute, he held himself still, looking around, listening.

Instinct led him to backtrack about fifty steps or so and then cut west along the slope, which sheered off into a rocky ravine, about twenty feet down, the forest floor there covered in a mat of brown, red and gold leaves, sodden and flattened by rain. Uncas paused there again to listen and look and was rewarded with a confirmation of his earlier suspicion. Descending part of the way into the ravine, he saw, at the base of a group of rocks, a twisted figure in badly stained but unmistakable British reds. For a moment he thought the man had fallen from above and had broken his neck, but when Uncas was about twenty feet off he saw the man's eyes flutter. He wasn't dead. Yet.

It made no sense for a lone soldier to be here; whatever regiment he was from was either far north or far south of them. But alone he was. There had been no other sign. Uncas approached, seeing the man's half-hearted attempt to reach his musket with bayonet attached lying close to him, but he got there first and used his foot to flick it well out of the way. Defeat was written in the soldier's eyes over the underlying pain.

His leg was the most obvious cause of his immobility, stiff and discolored with old blood as it was from shin to above his knee. Uncas crouched by him, leaned in and felt the pulse at the neck, which was weak. He was temporarily distracted by the pale blue of the suspicious eyes regarding him; they reminded him more of a woodland animal than a human.

For a few moments, he was torn; the man was not so badly wounded that he could dispatch him as an act of mercy, but neither was it right to walk off and leave him there in the hands of less merciful nature. While he hesitated, the man, obviously having realized at least he wasn't going to be immediately dispatched by whoever his discoverer was, worked his cracked mouth and articulated hoarsely, "Water."

Uncas let him have a little from his water flask, not because there was a shortage of it but because the fool would drink it all if he could, as thirsty men tended to. The other's eyes widened after he finished drinking. "Did you...just understand me?"

"Of course I understood you." Only mildly irritated, Uncas sat back on his haunches and stored the water flask. "What regiment are you from?"

The other's eyes were still wide with surprise and disbelief, uncertainty, but he answered out of reflex, "35th."

"Bit off course, aren't you? Deserter?"

The soldier shook his head weakly but did not seem inclined to elaborate.

Uncas weighed the risks involved in taking him back to the cabin, the amount by which it would slow him down and the likelihood that the fellow wouldn't die on the way. He didn't especially like the chances. It was already past midday and he should have been back by the afternoon. Now he might not make it before nightfall. "You can't walk?"

The soldier accepted his hand, let himself be brought upright, and tried to struggle forward, gritting his teeth, but it was clear that he couldn't. His left leg hung awkwardly at his side and then his eyes rolled briefly and he slumped forwards. Uncas caught him in time, slung him over a shoulder and began the slow progress out of the ravine and back up the slope. The fellow was young and slight enough, comparable to a yearling buck that had seen a scarce winter, but it was an entirely different distribution of weight to bear. With the soldier's ragged breathing and his own steady breaths echoing in his ears, Uncas started the journey home.

***

Alice was relaxing by the hearth after dinner, sipping at her tea while Chingachgook, who was carving a bit of deer antler into a sharp point to make an awl, told her a story. It had something to do with little people who had lived before whites or Indians ever inhabited these parts. She was really just listening to the sound of his voice, rather than the actual content of the tale.

She realized after there was a short pause that Chingachgook had just asked her something and, though she had registered it as being in English, she had no idea what the question had been. For a moment she stared dumbly at him, trying to recall what words had been uttered. Chingachgook stared gravely in response, then his wrinkled face broke into the slightest of smiles. Worried he'd be angry she was caught in such an obvious show of lack of attention, Alice smiled back, relieved.

Then Chingachgook's expression altered and he rose swiftly and went to the cabin door, holding it open and disappearing out into the darkness. Alice scrambled up, bewildered, looking out after him, despite the cold blast of air that was coming in. It was hard to register anything in the clearing except dark forms and the mumbled mutual language the two men shared--Uncas was back! so it wasn't until they were right at the doorway that she backed away in surprise. Assisted now by Chingachgook, Uncas was carrying a man, whose blond hair spilled over his shoulder gave Alice a thrill of immediate, irrational kinship.

Uncas and Chingachgook, between them, deposited their burden on the hide before the hearth that Alice had been occupying just moments before. The man's arms tumbled limply to the floor and smacked there with an impact that made her wince, and he let out a mingled sigh or groan of pain.

She stared in fascination and fear, disturbed by how injured he seemed, yet unable to look away from the wonderfully familiar uniform marking him as a member of her Majesty's army, one of her father's kind.

Uncas grabbed clothes and passed her on his way out of the cabin again, no doubt going to wash--which was well, she thought, having registered dizzily that he was almost as filthy as the wounded and dirty soldier--giving her a quick warm glance as he went. She was still too rapt at the unexpected appearance of a countryman to think of much else.

Chingachgook was already crouching and using his knife to slit the cloth at the man's leg, tearing away scraps of the blood-soaked fabric. "Warm water," he said over his shoulder to Alice. There was nothing left in the kettle from the tea she had made earlier, so she hurried to fill the kettle with fresh drinking water and set it to heat by the fire. Then she crouched as Chingachgook was doing, near the man's head, and peered at his face. He had fallen out of consciousness, it seemed, for his head lolled to the side and his eyes were shut.

Uncas' father grunted as he inspected the damage of the soldier's leg.

"Is he...badly hurt?" Alice asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the face of the man so as not to have to look at the wound. "Will he..."

"He's young," Chingachgook said, brushing the question aside. "And lucky my son found him before the wolves did. Water ready?"

The water was starting to steam, so Alice brought it, and fetched some of the clean buckskin fabric they stored in the pantry, which she had only seen thus far used for patching clothing. Now she saw it used to clean away some of the dirt and blood from the wounded leg of the soldier.

Uncas came back inside in fresh clothes, his body and head glistening with wet from the stream, and shaking slightly from the cold of it. He dropped down next to the fire and accepted the cup Alice offered him which still held several swallows of warm tea.

"Where did you find him?" Alice asked.

"'Bout ten mile south." He finished the drink and handed it back to her, their hands touching. She was surprised to feel that for once his fingers were colder than hers. "Didn't know if I'd make it back by tonight."

Alice was glad he had, and wanted to say so, but wouldn't, not with Chingachgook present.

"Broken?" Uncas asked of the older man, who was examining the leg more closely now.

His father gave a grunt of dissent. "Flesh wound. Probably one of his own company."

Alice didn't understand what this signified but she was hoping that since it seemed that neither man appeared too concerned over the fate of the young arrival, he might not be in such terrible shape.

Chingachgook finished cleaning and dressing the leg, applying some sort of noxious medicament that he carried in a packet on his person, and then bound it. He bundled up the dirty rags and discarded cloth, then used them to swab up the small amount of blood that had spilled on the floor, after which he tossed them into the fire.

"You should get some sleep," Uncas said to Alice.

"I'm not tired." She hugged her knees and rocked like a child.

He smiled at her. "You know he's in no condition to talk anytime soon."

"We should give him my bed. He is injured, after all."

Uncas exchanged glances with Chingachgook, who seemed to shrug infinitesimally, but then said, "It's better not to move him much at first. And he should be near the fire where it's warmer."

Alice could see the logic in this. "But we are going to keep him?"

"Not forever," Uncas said drily. "Till he heals or..." She shot him a disbelieving look and he didn't finish the sentence.

Chingachgook began to speak in Mohegan and Alice's attention drifted away since she wasn't understanding any of the words. Uncas sounded a little surprised at whatever his father was saying, however. She was vaguely irked that they were not using English because they were certainly discussing what to do with the young soldier, and she felt that she had a right to give her opinion on the matter, because after all even if this wasn't exactly her cabin, she was certainly living here, wasn't she? And had a right to be included.

The three of them stayed up for a while longer, watching and waiting at the soldier's side, but it didn't look as if he were going to regain consciousness that night; he lay mute and motionless except for the occasional twitch. Finally Alice began to feel her eyelids growing heavy, accustomed as she was to turning in early after dinner, and excused herself and went to her bed. Uncas came over to say good night, and she felt rather kindly inclined towards the idea of him sitting on the bed for a few moments, given that they'd spent almost a whole week out of each other's presence.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Fine," she said carelessly. "And busy." She wanted to tell him all the things she'd been learning while he was gone, but on the other hand it would be more rewarding to let him discover them little by little, one at a time.

"Busy? My father didn't set you to work, did he?"

"Nothing too very difficult," she replied. She knew her blithe manner was slightly disconcerting to him and rather enjoyed it.

Uncas nodded. "Well, you should get some sleep. Father says he's leaving tomorrow."

"Whyever is he leaving so suddenly? And just when we have someone to look after?" Somewhat alarmed, Alice sat up in bed.

"The cabin's not big enough for four, and he should go before it snows. He says we'll be fine. I'll do the looking after of the soldier, anyway. You'd best stay away from him, he's a stranger."

Alice almost gave a grunt in their dismissive fashion but stopped herself just in time. "Hardly a stranger. He's British."

"Could be a deserter, a criminal--and we don't even know his name." Uncas glared through dark brows at her, but she knew him too well to be intimidated by this bit of repression.

"We can find that out soon enough," Alice retorted saucily.

"Of course I'll find it out myself when he's lucid. Now get some sleep, Wiyon-ashay."

_Hmmph_, she said under the cover of the furs, and giggled at such a masculine, unrefined sound coming from her throat.

A little later, when she still wasn't sleeping, she peered around the corner of the partition to see that Chingachgook might have been right; four people in the cabin took up a lot of space. The soldier was in front of the fire, and the two Mohegan men were sprawled out on their hides between him and her, which she thought was slightly endearing; it was as if they were trying to provide a physical barrier even though the man was obviously unable to get up. Alice smiled to herself and slid back down in her bed, eventually succumbing to the dark night and sleep.

***

The British soldier drifted in and out of consciousness in the following few days, but was never in much of a position to speak. Uncas took over the responsibility of treating his leg wound and feeding him, and did not allow Alice to do much in the way of direct caretaking. She was often at his side anyway when he dealt with the patient, but remained only an on-looker. So she found other ways to help; always making sure that hot water was available either for the making of tea or for washing, preparing extra soup which at first the soldier had little stomach for, and ensuring that there was always clean and dry buckskin available for his bandages.

Uncas was outside making repairs to a newly-discovered draughty space in the cabin wall one afternoon when their patient stirred. Alice, who had just moved by him to stir the pot of stew, hesitated, waiting to see if he would drift back out of consciousness as he had already done several times. But this time his pale eyes, after flickering briefly, looked about the cabin for a while before settling up and on her.

She smiled tentatively.

"Hello," he said, in wonderment, his voice scratchy from disuse. "I thought I must have.. imagined you."

"How are you feeling?" She crouched down at his side. "You look a little better, I think."

"How long have I been here?" He brought a hand, slightly shaky, to his forehead and winced.

"A few days." Alice knew she should probably call Uncas in from outside yet she couldn't resist the chance to interrogate the stranger on her own, to be the first to possess some kind of knowledge. "Are you thirsty?"

He nodded, and she brought him tea with honey in it, which she had given him before, though he had always drunk it with eyes closed and only a few sips at a time before falling exhausted back down. Now he emptied the cup and smiled a little.

"What's your name?" Alice said, now that he had quenched his thirst and was probably better able to talk.

"William...Fletcher. And yours?"

She smoothed a length of hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious. "I am Alice Munro."

"How...?" He paused for a moment as if the effort of speaking were strenuous, and it probably was. "How did you come to be here?"

Alice had not considered the possibility that this question would be posed to her and so she stared at him blankly for a few seconds while she tried to think what the proper answer could be. There really wasn't one. The silence grew and she was spared the awkwardness of stammering through some sort of reply when Uncas re-appeared in the cabin. They both turned their gazes on him. He frowned at the two of them.

"When did he wake up?"

"Just now," Alice said, rising backwards on her heels and pushing herself to her feet, a move she'd had to practice in the past weeks and was only now becoming proficient at.

Uncas came over. "How's the leg feel?"

Alice wondered if he were speaking brusquely or not; it was sometimes hard to tell since his manner of speaking was usually practical rather than elaborate.

William squinted at him then replied, "It aches."

Uncas said to Alice, "From now on you give him willowbark tea, to help with the pain. It grows by the--"

"I know where it is." Alice went to fetch a basket, one of the new ones she'd made in his absence. Uncas stared at her and then at the basket, his brows knitting. "You do."

"Yes," she said, demurely. "There's a small stand of willows just downstream a ways, not very far." Knowing both pairs of eyes were on her, she walked out of the cabin, swinging her basket in front of her as she went, unable to completely suppress the pleased smile on her face as she did so.


	7. Chapter 7

_Cold Moon (December)_

It was the second week since Uncas had brought the wounded William back to the cabin to stay with them, and the recovery of the British soldier seemed certain. He was now awake for normal periods of time, sleeping through the night when they did and only napping in the afternoons after he had had his dose of medicated tea.

Uncas had determined fairly early on that, whatever else he was, the man posed little threat to his or Alice's safety. He was not aggressive, even as he was regaining strength, but continued to be extremely mild-mannered, polite, and appreciative of all they were doing for him (although this might have been out of a realization that his survival depended on such behaviour more than anything.)

William had, if he were telling the truth, had been injured after a terrific ambush on his company some time before, and it still wasn't clear to him whether the ball that had grazed his leg had been enemy or friendly fire. It hadn't been enough to prevent him from fleeing, and he'd been wandering around in the forest since, getting weaker, hungrier, and more lost with the passing of days. Uncas found it hard to believe that a man--certainly one calling himself a soldier--could lack the basic tracking skills to enable him to return to the scene of his ambush and determine whether he was the sole survivor or not, but then again, he'd never had a particularly high opinion of the talents of English soldiers. This one was probably about his own age, but seemed only slightly more capable than Uncas knew he himself had been as an adolescent.

As a houseguest William was not a huge burden after the early days. He was quiet, undemanding, and ate just enough to survive, though not enough to cause undue damage to their food stores, and had several times stated his desire to be of any assistance once he was able to walk well, though Uncas had said that there was nothing for him to do but recover completely.

It was Alice who gave Uncas pause. Something was different about her, had been ever since he'd made the pilgrimage to the Webb cabin. She had a newfound confidence in her motions, a sort of femininity that was absorbing and made her less child-like and more competent than ever. Though he was sure she still missed her sister and her old way of life as intensely as ever, she was now refusing to let him see those needs in her. Uncas wasn't certain this was a good thing--whatever had changed her perspective couldn't change who she was, and just because a person found a new strength and a new energy didn't mean that the old wounds could so quickly heal.

Still, he began to realize he was grateful to his father for whatever it was he had taught Alice during his visit with them. The day that Chingachgook had left, he had turned to Alice and bid her farewell in English, then added after a second's pause, "_nuhshum_", which Alice hadn't understood, and had asked Uncas the meaning of after the older Mohegan had departed. Uncas had been surprised, almost as much as Alice had been when he tried to put her off a few times but had to eventually tell her quietly that it had meant "daughter-in-law". Then both of them had been embarrassed and it had been a little while before that awkwardness blew over. But now, while the presence of William made it impossible for them to share any type of close interaction, he felt that the air between them was clear, and that Alice was, perhaps, in her own way, becoming more accustomed to the notion of living here with him, as half of a couple. He knew they weren't quite there yet, but he hoped that, before the snow settled in, before the winter settled upon them and enclosed them with the intimacy of its embrace, that they would have reached a solid understanding.

William being included amongst the cabin-dwellers was like to throw a shiny bauble between a pair of woodpeckers, though, Uncas thought ruefully, for he had seen early on that Alice was drawn to the young British man, if not in the strictly romantic sense, simply because of the fact that he was a countryman and congenial. He didn't blame her for that, and once he realized William was no threat, he began to relax a bit when the two of them began to spend the afternoons chatting. It didn't bother him that Alice grew so animated when discussing something of which he knew absolutely nothing. He rather liked to watch her, to listen to her at these times.

The fact that the snow was still holding off was welcome to Uncas, because he knew that William would need as much time as possible to be strong enough to travel. Winter's promise was in every early night, every hush of cold morning, but still the snow hadn't come.

William's first bath was an event that took up most of the day it occurred on. He had needed it greatly. His pants had been largely unsalvageable from the night that Chingachgook had applied the knife to them to treat his leg wounds, so he'd been lying with only his coat and a hide blanket covering him since then. When he was finally able to move around without too much difficulty, Uncas spent time bearing in buckets of water, which they heated overnight by the fire and added hot kettles to. Then Alice had been banished to her partitioned-off bed to wait while William availed himself of the water, a procedure that took longer than normal because he had to avoid getting his healing leg exposed to it. She was much entertained by the muffled English and Mohegan curses that she could hear while the bath was going on. Uncas evidently didn't care for this aspect of playing nursemaid and William seemed to be none too pleased either. When he was finally out and restored to decency behind the hides, Alice was able to get out his coat, which she had laundered in the interim, and a pair of leggings. With William finally clean and dressed, he looked a great deal more respectable, his shoulder-length hair that was a darker blond than hers drying at the back of his neck in slight waves, and his skin scrubbed pink.

Alice handed him a cup of the willowbark tea that he drank almost exclusively now, so that its astringent aroma had almost become more familiar to her than the regular variety from the garden. It was more bitter, so she was going through quite a bit of honey, but she didn't mind. It was worth it to see the pleasure on the face of a fellow tea-lover, and to know she was providing that bit of home to him, that something which restored them both immediately to a proper English parlor where, in their minds' eye, they were sipping from china cups instead of wooden ones, with delicate buttered biscuits on flower-rimmed plates instead of blackened cornbread on a trencher.

"Thank you." William's long white fingers curved around the cup as he took it from her.

"You're welcome." Alice sat down at the table, assuming her proper straight-backed pose that the lengthy period of time spent without the lack of corsets had begun to make her less inclined to adopt. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him as he drank the tea down. "Is it sweet enough?"

"It's very sweet. And does wonders for the pain. Perhaps you should have been an army nurse. I believe you would have done an excellent job at treating your patients."

Alice shook her head, embarrassed. "I do not think so. I am actually not very good with...injuries."

"Wrong temperament," Uncas said, without looking up, from the corner of the cabin, where he was peeling acorns of their hard outer shell in order to render the inner meat ready for boiling, then roasting and consumption.

Alice glanced over at him, vexed by this casual diagnosis. Admittedly, she had no desire to make caring for sick men part of her daily routine, and she _had_ felt quite put off by the sight of all the blood on the first night; it had brought back memories of her kidnapping and what had thereafter happened to her kidnappers, a memory she constantly had to work to forget; but it was one thing to feel a certain way about an activity and quite another to be told you didn't have the ability to do it.

William ignored the aside and said diplomatically, "Can I assist with any of the preparations for dinner? Or is there perhaps anything I can do outside?"

"You can still barely walk," Alice protested. "Please continue to rest until you are stronger."

"I just don't wish to be useless."

"You are not useless," she said, smiling at him, wondering if Uncas had just grunted derisively or she had imagined it. Surely the latter. "After dinner, you may read to me, if you like. It's harder to see by the firelight, but I like to listen to poetry."

"As do I. I would be happy to."

They chatted further of inconsequentialities then for a while, William discussing some of the literature he had been reading back in London, and of the book of writings he had brought with him when he'd become a soldier but which had since been lost or stolen. Outdoors, the daylight began to make its quick departure and the evening crept up to take its place.

That evening meal was convivial, with William able to sit at table for the first time and eat with the first signs of a real appetite he'd shown, a mark of true recovery. Between the three of them, they were able to finish off an entire slab of cornbread, a pot of corn and several slabs of meat that had been staying cold outside, punctuated by large quantities of chill stream water.

"I am glad to see you eating so well, William." Alice had addressed him more formally in the beginning, but that just seemed unnecessary now, out here, so far from civilization, though he still called her Miss Alice, which she rather liked.

"I believe it's the first day I've been really hungry," William admitted, patting his stomach as he took a last long drink of water and leaned back against the wall with a bit of a sigh.

"How did you fare for food while you were in the forest?" Alice inquired.

"Not well. There were some late berries, some nuts. I could never get close enough to any animals to catch them."

"Didn't you have a knife on you?" Uncas demanded. He didn't often participate in the conversations, but evidently this had bothered him enough to ask.

William shrugged and assumed the slightly odd tone that Alice had noticed he adopted when speaking to the Mohegan. "I did, at one point, but couldn't find it after I'd left the site of the ambush." He glanced at Alice again and said winningly, "I'm afraid I have never been much of a soldier."

Uncas looked like he was about to agree with this assessment but Alice shot him a warning glance. Their eyes locked across the table. "How did you come to be one?" she asked, politely.

"It was my father's choice for me." William didn't sound apologetic. "I myself had thought of other paths; the ministry, perhaps, or simply living a scholar's life, trading physical poverty for intellectual satisfaction. But the young are at the mercy of the decisions of the old, are they not?"

Alice thought that this echoed a similar conversation she had had with Uncas, at the shore of the wolf camp, when she had been so frustrated because she felt as though everyone was allowed to make choices about their future except for her, and that had led, eventually, to her making the decision to come to the cabin for the winter...she wondered what William would think about such a choice. He would probably be shocked if he knew. Then again, he couldn't think she was being kept against her will, could he? His attitude towards Uncas seemed so strange at times, as if he feared risking his ire, or...Alice, who felt there was nothing to fear from Uncas, at least not once you _knew_ him, found this puzzling.

She murmured something prosaic, which concluded that conversation, while rising to clear away the remnants of their meal. Afterwards, before bed, William read for a while from the Dryden book, as he had promised, while they sat by the fire. Uncas, who was busy fashioning some strange contraptions in the corner, worked quietly. Alice sat with her knees pulled up to her chest and her chin propped on her hands, listening mostly to the tone of William's voice, as she had when Chingachgook had been her companion of evenings.

William was reading:

"I feed a flame within, which so torments me  
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:  
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,  
That I had rather die than once remove it.  
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;  
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.  
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,  
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.  
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,  
My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;  
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,  
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.  
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;  
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.  
To be more happy I dare not aspire,  
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher."

He paused when he had finished, taking a breath. Alice fidgeted, unable to look anywhere but the floor. William went on to read something else, but the lines from the first poem continued to echo, in a nagging manner, in her mind. Before much longer she claimed fatigue--earlier than she might have on any other evening--and excused herself to her bed.

That night she dreamed of home in England, but in the dream though everything and everyone was how she remembered it, she herself was altered, a different person, and she kept having this intense sensation that there was something she had forgotten to do, or something she'd lost, but she didn't know what it was or how to find it, only that it was from her past, from her memory, from another world. And in the middle of the night, or sometime in the early hours before light had yet struck the cabin, she woke up and found her face damp and cold with tears.

Crawling out of bed, and wincing as her bare feet hit the bitter floor, Alice tiptoed past her partition and into the warm glow of the main room. William's form was all but obscured by a pile of pelts where he lay to the right side of the hearth, snoring gently. On the left, Uncas was sleeping in a sitting position up against the wall, just as he had on every night spent outside the cabin, and which he still sometimes did, even now; his face turned slightly away from her. As she crept over to the small stand upon which they kept both drinking and washing water, he woke, though she had made scarcely any noise. His manner of waking almost always frightened her because it was so swift, almost as if he hadn't really been asleep at all. She stood rooted to the floor despite her feet beginning to grow numb, and stared at him, trying to will her heartbeat back into a normal pattern.

"Everything all right?" His voice was soft but deep, almost instantly soothing to her.

"I'm cold," Alice admitted in a whisper, though she hadn't been before she'd left her bed--the lack of slippers on her feet was proving unbearable.

Uncas stretched out a hand in her direction, and, without thinking, she came. Sometimes he had that effect on her, where there was no awkwardness between them, no coquetry, no awareness of their cultural and physical differences, where all that she knew was that he could provide something that she needed. Heat. Safety. Comfort. All those things at the same time. She snuggled up against him, even as he shifted to make space for her on the thick bear hide that absorbed the cold from the floor, giving her leg a gentle slap of irritation in reproof of how cold her feet were. Alice drew her legs up against his, working her toes in the coarse, prickly fur of the bearskin.

"Bad dream?" he said into her hair.

She gave a tiny nod, and then thought of remaining silent, but curiosity drove her to murmur, "How do you know?"

"You went to bed troubled." His arm tightened around her. "Tell me what it was."

"I was just tired," she defended.

"I mean the dream. Father says it's a good way to keep it from coming back."

"Do you believe that?"

His shoulder rose slightly against her. "I don't know. It didn't work for Nathaniel. Maybe because he was white." His tone was solemn and she didn't know if he were teasing or not.

"What did Nathaniel dream about?" Alice was eager to turn the conversation away from herself.

"His birth family, more than likely. Fire. It was an accident, so Father said."

"What a horrible way to die." Alice shivered, feeling guilty that her initial perceptions of her brother-in-law, which still carried over to some extent in her memories of him, were that he had been rather overbearing and unconcerned for the feelings of others.

"Death does not need to be pretty, _Wiyon-ashay_. If they felt no fear when they went."

"What does it matter whether they feared, after they were dead?" Alice argued.

"Ssh." Uncas' arm tightened around her again. "You're going to wake your poetry-reading soldier."

She frowned against his chest at the subtle hint of mockery she felt in these words, and murmured crossly, "He is not _my_ poetry-reading soldier."

"You take good enough care of him to be."

"He is still not well! I have to." Alice could feel her cheeks heating at the implication. "Besides, you brought him here."

"Considered leaving him where I found him," Uncas said frankly. "Would have, if he'd been French."

"That is a terrible thing to say."

"It's the way it is. Even this one--" Uncas paused for a second and she knew he was looking over in William's direction. "If it'd been me who was injured, you think he would have stopped?"

Alice did not know what to say to that, though in her heart she knew that the answer was no. She still recalled Duncan telling them there were good Indians and bad Indians but admitting that even the local frontiersmen didn't know for certain half the time which ones belonged to which group. It would not have been the priority of a British soldier to take the time to find out. "He might have," she mumbled at last, though without much conviction. "William seems like a good person."

Uncas grunted and then didn't say anything again for a while. Alice was just starting to relax back into his chest, lulled by his heartbeat when he said, "It's going to snow soon."

She realized that by this he meant that, when it did, she would have to expect the soldier to move on as well. And she whispered, "I don't care," although she did care, although to what degree she wasn't certain, or why.

"You warm enough now?"

"I suppose," she said, with dignity, and uncurled herself from under his arm. He gazed up at her with black unreadable eyes and said gently, "Then go get some more sleep."

Alice returned to her bed trying to shake the vague feeling of irritation that she had been dismissed, but within the next hour sleep came swiftly enough, and, thankfully, dreamlessly.

* * *

"Nathaniel."

"Mmm?"

They were lying in the featherbed under a mountain of quilts which couldn't quite hide the fact that the room air was icy. The fire in the grate often smoked and could never be built as well as Cora would like, and the boards of the townhouse walls were not as well insulated as they might have been. It was another reason Cora didn't like to venture out of bed until well after noon when the winter sun at least had a chance to creep through the glass windows and warm up the room somewhat.

"What if we had a child?"

He was silent for a moment and then his hand, which had been smoothing hair back from her face, stilled as well. "That is a hypothetical question, is it not, wife?"

She smiled into the darkness. She adored it when he called her wife. "Of course," _Well, as far as I know, _she added to herself honestly.

Nathaniel's hand resumed its activity. "I suppose it would be better if it can wait till next year? You shouldn't have to travel in such a condition."

"But it might happen." Cora thought of the three months they still had to be in Albany before it would be safe to attempt the journey back up to the cabin. Now that the weather was poorer, they spent more time indoors, though that didn't detract greatly from her enjoyment of their honeymoon period; there was still plenty to do. She could socialize with some of the other couples, and had, though she tired of that sort of thing quickly enough; usually an hour at dinner per day was enough for either of them. But there were books--her own and Alice's, brought from England, a goodly supply of books, and more to be had from the other inhabitants of the Tontine, only for the asking. There was needlepoint, and knitting for her to take up again; and while she had never been interested in either of these things at home, she found them relaxing, and enjoyed working with the fine materials after her time away from them.

The only shadow in her contentment was, and continued to be, her concern for her sister and his brother, stuck up in the cabin in the wilds with only each other for company and no distractions. No contact with the outside world, should anything go wrong. Cora thought she remembered Nathaniel having told her that Chingachgook had intended to make a visit there before the snow flew to bring extra supplies and to check on them, and doubtless deliver their letter if it had reached him in time, but it would then be some time before the Mohegan man could accomplish that mission and then in turn compose a letter to be carried back to them in Albany. She longed to have a reply from her sister, even if it were only once in the entire spread of time that they were apart. She often felt guilty that in her own excitement over leaving as soon-to-be newlyweds she had not paid enough attention or given enough thought to Alice's situation, and as much as she longed to see her again, she also feared the reunion. She didn't want to see her changed; unless it was as she herself had been changed, by happiness.

Nathaniel said, startling her, as she'd become lost in her thoughts, "If it does happen, we will just have to alter our plans accordingly. Start earlier, travel more slowly. You will tell me, won't you?" His tone sharpened slightly and she realized that, unlike most men of his generation, did not desire to be kept in ignorance of his wife's fertility status.

"Of course I will," Cora agreed.

"Good." He leaned closer and planted a soft kiss on her lips. "It's very late."

"Very early, you mean," she said, realizing that she was indeed beginning to grow drowsy. She tangled her legs companionably in his and closed her eyes, wondering what it would be like to be a family. For there to be three of them. She fell asleep thinking of the possibility.


	8. Chapter 8

With a faint headache nagging at her, Alice fastened her cloak and slipped outdoors, breathing in deeply of the cold sweet air. It was late afternoon, and the sky was a curious shade of gray, in contrast to the stark black of the leafless trees with their branches extended upwards as though they were petitioning the heavens. There was very little wind, and Alice's breath came out in frosty puffs as she took one of the many trails that criss-crossed around their clearing. She didn't have it in mind to go anywhere in particular, but just felt that she needed the fresh taste of the air before another long night indoors. And her body longed for some activity beyond the simple moving about the floor of the cabin.

Leaves padded the ground as she walked, creating a cushion on the forest floor that felt pleasant under her moccasined feet. It was easier and quieter to walk in them than in hard leather shoes, and she liked that they left less of an imprint.

Alice did not have much faith in her inner sense of direction, and so she was careful to pay attention to things around her as she walked, heading in a vaguely circular trail that looped around and would--or should--end up behind the cabin again. It would be embarrassing to end up lost so close to the cabin and having to call for help or wait until Uncas came looking for her, as she knew he would if she were gone for any length of time. So she noted in her mind the various landmarks and natural objects as she passed them, aided in this by the fact that the forest was stripped of most of its foliage; in midsummer she probably would have found it much harder to navigate amidst the wild greenery and tall ferns.

The forest lay silent now, as if it also were in waiting for winter's first sign. There was no evidence of animals or insects, and all Alice could hear was her own breathing as she stepped around rock outcroppings and passed in between copses of trees.

She walked for perhaps half of an hour, before turning and heading back in the direction of the cabin, marked overhead by a thin plume of smoke to her right. She could see it through the trees before very long and, as she'd predicted, she was coming to it from the side, where the woodpiles were.

William was outdoors, moving slowly in his bright coat, his hair a flame of lightness above it. He was such an obvious outsider that Alice suddenly realized just how much she must have stood out at the camp. There she had only felt resentment for being looked at and talked of, but now it seemed only natural, given how very different they were from the Mohegans and the Delaware.

Alice approached, walking softly. William didn't notice her till she was almost upon him, a fact which pleased her. When he did, he turned, his arms full of logs, and almost dropped them before regaining his presence of mind.

"What are you doing?" she said, smiling, her mood much improved by the solo jaunt.

"I was about to bring in some more wood for the fire," William said. "The supply inside is getting low."

Alice took a long deep breath of the air and hugged herself. "Doesn't it smell wonderful outside today?"

"It does," agreed William, looking around, though he looked a trifle amused at such an idea. "And the sky is such an interesting color."

They both turned their heads upward to gaze at the late afternoon sky, falling silent, and suddenly Alice realized that it was snowing. Tiny, damp flakes, drifting down in almost a perfectly straight direction, undisturbed by wind.

"The first snow," she whispered, as if it were a magical event. But it did feel magical. The air was oddly warm, and the snowflakes, as they struck her cheeks and eyelashes, were a flower-light kiss on her skin, blooming where they landed on her cloak.

"So it is," William murmured, and she noticed he'd adopted her hushed tone as if it were a moment that would be destroyed by any unnecessary noise. They stood thus for a few long moments, embraced by the intimacy of the snow falling around them, unwilling to disturb its gentle blessing.

William took a breath, and then carefully set his burden of logs back on top of the neatly stacked pile, brushing his hands off. Alice watched him, aware that he was about to say something of fairly significant import, and not entirely certain she wanted to hear it, but she could scarcely duck away out of sight (though she thought of it; just turning and vanishing back into the woods there to enjoy the snowfall without any complications or uncomfortable moments.) She pretended to find something interesting about the hem of her cloak, running it between her fingers for a few moments before William cleared his throat and she had to look up, hoping that her expression would seem merely blank, not revealing anything but innocence.

"Miss Alice. May I ask you? What are you doing here?"

Though his question mirrored hers of moments before, his meant something quite different and Alice knew it. And she'd been preparing for it, though she hadn't imagined it taking place in this moment of solitude outdoors surrounded by captivating, distracting snow; nor had she thought that William's blue eyes would be so sincere and kind and somehow...concerned. Certainly she hadn't thought that her stomach would give a sick twist as if a great deal depended on whatever answer she gave.

"You told me your sister was in Albany," William continued. "Should you not be with her? Isn't it...a hardship, to be up here, so isolated?" He gestured around the clearing.

Alice looked down, aware that her fingers were growing cold. She rubbed them together a little nervously. "No," she said softly. Uncas would have seen such a lie coming from miles away but William didn't know her well enough to make that judgment.

Slight frustration crossed the Englishman's features. She knew he was trying to word his questions in such a way so as not to offend her. "How did you come to be here? How long has it been?"

"I came at the end of summer," Alice responded. _Though it seems longer than that, sometimes. _"It is safe here, out of the way of the fighting that's occurring."

"But you should at least be at a fort, with other women. This is no place for a young, properly brought-up British girl, which you have shown yourself to be."

Alice wondered if he knew how pompous he sounded. Yet she still couldn't resist the allure of his familiar accent, his attitude which was so reminiscent of all the men she had ever known; her father, Duncan, some of the soldiers she'd watched at the dances through the balcony of their upstairs...She knew she had no power to be angry at him, to tell him that he was wrong. And he _wasn't _wrong. This was no place for a girl to be. It was nothing she hadn't said to herself a hundred times, in the dark of the cabin when she was alone in her bed.

The snow danced around them, falling with greater intensity now, speckling William's red-coated shoulders.

"Alice. I have to leave soon. My leg is better, thanks to you."

_Thanks to us_, she thought, but didn't say.

"I will be returning to my company," William continued. "It may be days before I can find them, but once we do, we can put together an escort for you and have you returned to your sister at Albany."

It was an unfortunate choice of words. _I don't belong to my sister_, Alice thought crossly. _She didn't lose me, nor I her. We have our own plan to be together. We don't need anyone's help any more_.

His gaze grew intense, and though she tried to look away she found she could not help but gaze back into his eyes, though she didn't really want to read the message she saw there.

"Please at least consider coming with me. You must know it would be the right decision. You can't stay here with--with--" He hesitated, and Alice could see the emotions flitting across his face so clearly as he searched for suitable words. "With _him_."

After this was said there were a few more seconds of silence between them. Alice was somewhat perturbed to find that this statement made her feel surprisingly numb. She had thought she might fly into a fury if and when William directly brought up the issue of Uncas, but she felt rather cold and weary now that it had just happened. William didn't have to define what he meant by _him_. The not-them. Alice understood perfectly. After all, if she were honest with herself it was nothing she had not herself thought upon arrival to these foreign shores. She had formed her own set of preconceptions about the savages that roamed the Americas, and even after having been taken under the care and protection of Chingachgook and his son, it was not a mindset that could vanish or be erased with the mere passage of time.

Still, a natural nudge of loyalty, a sense of how things _should_ be, prodded her to say quietly, "He rescued you, William."

"I know that." William's cheeks flushed. "I am sensible of that and grateful to you both. But that does not alter the fact that you should not be here alone with him. Better you had not left England, whatever you left behind."

"I had nothing in England!" At least Uncas was providing for her here--was this man offering to do as much? She didn't think so. "It was my choice to come to this place."

William looked unconvinced.

"What, do you think he dragged me here and is holding me hostage? Really, William, you make it sound as though I am a prisoner."

"You may as well be now that the snow has come, and what then? What if you want to leave in the winter? You will have no way out."

"I am free to do what I want at any time!" She felt her own face getting hot.

"If that is true, then come with me, Alice."

Staring at him, as he stared at her, neither of them immediately noticed Uncas' arrival or presence. The Mohegan warrior could have been there for any length of time, the snow falling on his dark head, as he stood, as he must have stood when hunting prey, with an absolute lack of motion, not even so much as his chest rising and falling with breathing. Alice sensed rather than saw him, and turned her head, her hair falling over her shoulders, blinking past the snow; and saw the question on his face. Its lack of expression was a question to her. She looked back at William, who had his own question.

"Come with me," the William-in-her-head urged again, even as the William in front of her just asked with his eyes, and the damnable silence--how could silence be worse than death?--lingered on. Uncas said nothing. She wished he had. She looked back at him again and knew that her moment to speak was over, just like that, that she had lost her chance because she had hesitated. She had looked at both of them and hesitated, unable to make her decision with them both standing there like that, as if it was something that could just be _known_. As if she were just supposed to _know_ what to do with the rest of her life! Evidently Uncas thought that she should. He moved. Not towards her. He took a couple of steps back. Alice felt something twist in her stomach again, though his expression had not changed, he didn't look angry or even upset but something was just terribly wrong, as horrible as it had been seeing him scalp a man in front of her, it was _that_ kind of wrong between them. And then he was gone, disappearing into the forest through which she'd just come back, swallowed up by it almost instantly, even though, unfairly, the lack of foliage should have kept him visible for a while. And she stared at William, feeling betrayed.

There was no point in going after Uncas; she didn't think she would have been able to find him even if he had wanted her to, which he certainly didn't. She would have to talk to him when he came back. If he came back. No, that was just the doubt that William had planted in her mind, of _course_ he would come back. He would not desert her, she knew that perfectly well.

William touched her shoulder. "You're shaking," he said suddenly, firmly. "It's cold. Let's go inside."

She let him turn her around, the forgotten wood left behind them as they went back into the cabin.

Alice didn't know what to do with herself once they were inside. She sat down at the table, because her legs felt weak. William brought her some tea from the kettle; she drank it without tasting.

He sat down across from her. They were quiet for a long time, while Alice traced the patterns of the tabletop with her finger. Not trusting herself to speak, she waited until he did.

"Alice." His tone was gentle. "I'm sorry if I surprised you, or if you thought that there was something...inappropriate in my offer. I only want to help. I don't think you belong here."

Alice spoke at last and was surprised to hear how calm and restrained she sounded. "As you are not my relative, your opinion cannot matter."

His cheeks flushed. "Were I your older brother, I would certainly not be asking you. I would have removed you from here already...but you are right, though as a friend--if we may still be considered friends?--I lack the authority to do so."

"Yes," she said. "Thank you for the offer, William, but I think that you should leave now. I will be staying." Alice rose from the table, feeling oddly powerful, glad that her emotions were keeping themselves in check to the extent that she could maintain a steady gaze.

William nodded, slowly. "If that is what you wish." He stood, too.

"You cannot go empty-handed," she said, wondering where this calm, knowledgeable voice was coming from. On the inside she felt anything but. "It will be days before you reach civilization. I'll prepare some supplies for you."

He did not argue, and Alice began to organize a few things for him to take with him. For the bag, she used the one she had sewn herself--it was not pretty, but would suffice--filling it with a stack of _pumihkan_ bars and wrapping several layers of jerky in buckskin. She knew as she looked at the small package of food that William would doubtless be hungry by the time he reached any kind of settlement or place where he could obtain more sustenance, but she was fairly sure what she had packed would keep him alive until then, based on her memories of the meagre amounts of food she and Uncas had consumed on their journey to the cabin. On top of the food, she placed Uncas' second-best knife. He might ask her about it later, but she wasn't going to send a man completely unarmed into the forest, that didn't seem like it would be wise at all. And she had no desire for any harm to befall William, she wanted him safe back with his company or in whatever town he could make his way to.

It was early evening, and already almost dark by the time the journeybag was prepared. Alice wasn't sure that it made any kind of sense for William to leave just before nightfall, but he seemed determined to go now that there was no chance of her coming and little more to be said between them. He took a thick branch from outside and lit it in the fire to be a torch as he walked, and later build a fire for warmth until morning. And it was thus that he went, on the cusp of nightfall, a bag slung over his shoulder, and a torch brightly burning in hand.

She followed him outside to the edge of the clearing. It was still snowing. The snowflakes were radiant in the light that spilled from the half-open cabin door and in the golden nimbus that surrounded William's torch. The woods, by comparison, seemed cavernous, yawning. She could not imagine stepping forth into their unforgiving depths.

"I am sorry," William said again, pausing to look down at her. He took a breath and then held it for an instant. "He will come back, will he not?"

"Of course he will," Alice answered.

"How can you be certain?"

_Because once, when we crossed a river, he took my hand in his and promised not to let go. And even then, I knew...I knew he meant it. I knew it wasn't just words. _

Could anyone understand that? Anyone to whom it hadn't happened?

_Whatever else I am not sure of, I am sure that he will always find me._

_If it takes a thousand years_.

She realized she had not said these things and that William was still looking at her, his gaze doubtful.

At last, because the silence was stretching, and the wind picking up, she gave a tiny shrug and a slight smile. "You'd better go."

He nodded in assent. "Goodbye, Alice. And please, convey my apologies and my thanks to your...protector."

"Go carefully, William," she said, and waited till his figure, walking with its still halting step, disappeared into the shadow of the trees. She watched for a few more moments, then, gathering her cloak about her, headed back up into the cabin, and after another pause, closed the door against the driving snow.

***

Uncas had not gone far. He was within minutes of home. The night of the first snow was one that should be observed from indoors, not experienced firsthand, as it could turn treacherously heavy at any time. And he was without supplies or provisions.

He walked through the woods, close enough by that the cabin's smoke was still borne on the wind to him.

_Manto, Wiyon-ashay, if I thought for one heartbeat that you did not want to be here, I would take you back myself. I would take you to a safe place and leave you there. But no such place exists--and I didn't think you were regretting your choice. Was I wrong about that?_

_Why did you hesitate?_

He sucked in a breath of sweet winter air.

Jealousy was not an emotion with which he was familiar. He wouldn't have been able to describe what it felt like if he'd been asked. Yet all that Uncas knew was that when she had looked at him, then back at the Englishman, he had thought the strength of that emotion might overcome him. It shouldn't have. The Englishman was only a well-meaning fool, nothing more, certainly not a threat in any sense of the word.

Still.

To have seen them standing outside like that hadn't been easy. To hear him ask her to come with him.

To have to endure those moments where none of them had known, particularly Alice herself, if she might accept.

Night had settled. A dusky, ashy sky filled with frozen moisture. Uncas retraced his steps back towards the cabin. He'd been away long enough; more time outdoors wouldn't improve anything.

When he re-entered the cabin, shaking off the damp, clumpy snow from his moccasins on the steps outside, Alice sat upright, cross-legged, on the bed. Her expression was tragic. Her hair hung around her shoulders in limp disarray, and her face bore the tracks of tears as she clutched a wolf hide to her chest. He saw all this in the quick, cool glance he gave her before closing the door behind him and bolting it for the night. The fire was burning low, all gleaming purple and orange embers, and, methodically, he crossed over to the hearth and built it up.

Alice came trailing over, her steps hesitant. "He's gone," she said, in a tiny voice.

Uncas grunted in acknowledgment, though he could clearly see that without being told. "You eat anything?"

It was past the time they usually had dinner.

"No...I'm not hungry." She sounded so timid, as if she were afraid he would rebuke her. Though he had no reason to. If she truly didn't know what she were doing here, that disappointed him, but didn't anger him.

"Should still eat."

Alice knelt down beside him. "I'm sorry," she said, and for an instant Uncas thought she was referring to the scene earlier, but she added, "I...I didn't have anything ready for dinner."

"I told you before. You don't have to cook for me." _That's not why you're here_, he almost added, but refrained when he saw her head bow in acquiescence, understanding the veiled almost-barb.

"I know," she said, and then with a trace of defiance lacing her tone, "but I want to."

This was unexpected and he paused for a split-second; he'd been re-positioning a log in the pyramid of flames and just then it slipped, tumbling down in a shower of sparks to rest on the stone hearth. Uncas used the poke stick to nudge it back up into place before looking back directly at Alice. Did she really want to address what was going on between them right now? Because he was not in the mood to dissemble.

"Why?" he fired off.

Alice looked as if she hadn't expected him to say that, either. Neither of them were especially experienced with the art of discourse, even less so as it applied to their own relationship.

He raised a challenging eyebrow while he waited for her to answer.

She looked embarrassed. "I...I just want to be useful."

"Is that what my father told you?"

"What do you mean?"

"That you're not_ useful_?"

Alice fidgeted. "No...not exactly. Not like that..."

"He made sure you know what to do around here, didn't he? Told you things."

Alice nodded so guiltily as if she had done something wrong that it was almost comical. But he was still frustrated that she was avoiding getting around to what he wanted her to say.

"So. You're saying that's why you came here? To help me? You think I need someone to clean the cabin and make my food?"

She shook her head mutely.

He kept his voice level though he could feel himself working into a rare anger. "You think you owe me something?"

Again Alice pressed her lips together and moved her head from side to side, her eyes downcast, shaded by her lids.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," she cried suddenly. "I don't...It's not fair to ask me. He questioned me being here, now you question me being here, what does that mean? Do you want me to leave?" Her voice hitched.

He rose fluidly from a crouch, dropping the stick at the side of the hearth. It clattered against the floorboards. He walked over to the window and slid open the board covering it, letting in a brief flutter of snow crystals. "I want you to do," he said, after another moment, "what _you_ want to do."

In the silence that followed he willed her to say it. To say that she wanted to stay with him. That she wanted to be with him no matter where they were or what they had to endure. But he knew she wasn't going to say it, whether it was because she didn't feel it or because she wasn't ready to say it, and either way it hurt, it hurt like a twisting sickness in his stomach.

_...if I thought for one heartbeat that you did not want to be here.._.

He gazed out the window. "I could still find him."

"What?" Alice looked up, and as he glanced back over at her he could see her eyes were glittering.

"If you want. I could bring him back here. Or take you to him." He said it matter-of-factly.

"Don't be cruel," she choked.

He slid the window shut with a rather definitive crack and crossed over to her, bending just slightly to grasp her elbows and haul her, not ungently, to her feet. Alice swayed uncertainly in his grip, looking up at him with those limpid gray eyes that made his stomach only ache further.

"It is not cruel to ask for the truth. Why are you here?"

"I had no choice," she flung at him.

Manto, but this woman was stubborn. Were all women so stubborn? "That is not what you said outside at the woodpile."

He realized she didn't know how much of their conversation he'd witnessed; surprise showed in her face for a moment before she collected herself and glanced away. "I do not know what I said. I was startled then. I did not expect him to say such things to me."

"Alice," he said grimly, and her eyelids flickered in recognition of the fact that he almost never used her given name, had not, to his memory, since their interaction by the river at the wolf camp. "Do not lie to me. I will not endure it."

She swallowed, the motion of her pale throat attracting his attention for a moment. How she could be so fragile--her forearms felt like the slenderest of saplings in his hands, as if the slightest pressure would cause them to snap--and yet so stubborn at the same time. He could still feel her resistance in the way she held herself from him, see it in the tilt of her chin.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the bracelet he'd given her. Alice glanced down at her wrist.

"Do you want me to take this off?" he demanded softly. All right, so maybe _that_ was cruel...but she was not leaving him with very much to go on.

Alice shook her head. Tears lurked in the back of her eyes, ready to build up again. But she met his gaze unflinchingly.

"What does this mean to you?" he persisted, letting go of one of her arms and taking her braceleted wrist in his hands.

She evidently decided it was better to answer one of his earlier questions than that one. Pulling away and turning, she said barely audibly, "I want to stay here."

He caught her and drew her back within arms' reach, though she dragged her feet and refused to look at him now, like a sulky child caught in a misdeed.

"With me?"

Alice glared at him. "Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"What?" Looking betrayed, she backed away again. "How can you ask me to tell the truth, and then say you don't believe me when I say it!"

"Because," he said, advancing on her, "you don't know what you want."

"I do!" Still moving back, Alice had to stop when she came up against the cabin's far wall.

He leaned in, deliberately, until their bodies touched, and put one hand on either side of her head. And smiled at her. He could see how rapidly her pulse was beating in her throat.

"Show me," he challenged.

"Show you?" she squeaked.

"How you feel."

Alice hesitated for a split-second and then put her arms tentatively around his waist. Though it was rather endearing, he didn't respond, leaving his hands planted on the wall and looking at her upturned face in slight disbelief. "My cousin might hug me like that."

Her cheekbones deepened in color. Shifting her arms to move up around his neck--which was already an improvement--she tilted her face up to his.

Uncas lowered his own head accommodatingly, but as much as he wanted to kiss her, he knew it was her place to figure out. She had to admit that they were past the point where their relationship could be considered merely one of mutual convenience and dependency. He stared into her eyes, seriously, aware that she was struggling with it, knowing that he had made her go perhaps just a little too far today, but on the other hand, they couldn't continue as they had been doing.

Alice hesitated just long enough to make him think that she was going to back down, make him think that perhaps his father had been more right than he'd known, that not only wasn't she ready but she wasn't even close to being ready, but then she pushed herself up on her toes and met his mouth with her own. It was an awkward first kiss, but sweet; she let out a little adorable moan that was either of terror or delight, he couldn't really tell which; and after a few moments of the warm, intimate contact of their lips connecting, they separated.

He took a breath for self-control; it was one thing to be satisfied intellectually with that degree of progress but on a more primal level it was hard to step back and put an end to the intimacy for now. Yet he knew anything else would be too much for her. He took her more securely in his arms and held her close, wrapping his arms around her, enveloping her completely, absorbing the trembling of her body.

Alice could scarcely credit what they had just done--what she had just done. She was simultaneously embarrassed, confused, relieved, and terrified. The experience of their first kiss itself was impossible to dissociate from the emotions swamping her. She knew that all of this was the antithesis of proper. But then how could it be so...right? Did nothing else matter any more? Did she not care about what society would think of them? Now that she had admitted it to him, would she now be able to admit to herself what he meant to her?

Uncas murmured something in her ear. She thought he was telling her to sleep well. Even his voice sounded warm. Taking her hand, he brought her around to her bed, which was as well because she still felt like her legs didn't belong to her and would refuse to obey if she wanted them to move. He gave her a smile that made her stomach twist with its intensity, a quick caress with his hand on her cheek and then he left her in blessed solitude to attempt to sort out her feelings. It was a long time before her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace, and even then, she had no room in her head for any thought of sleep.

_Will it always feel awkward between us from now?_

_Will I regret this tomorrow?_

_Now that...now that we have done that, I hope he doesn't expect..._

She blushed in the darkness and buried her face in her hands.


	9. Chapter 9

_This chapter is mainly C/N..._

Cora was walking, arm linked in Nathaniel's, leaning against his shoulder in an attempt to deflect the strong wind as they rounded the street corner on their way back to the hotel. It was a blustery though snowless day and her coat was not quite thick enough to keep the cold completely at bay. They had been out for the afternoon, and were just returning now in time for dinner. She was already thinking of the roast beef and biscuits, and wonderfully warming sherry.

The streets, while not crowded at this time of evening had their fair share of occupants, and as they walked she thought for a moment that she'd felt something brush her skirts, though she paid it no real attention until Nathaniel loosed her arm and uttered an oath of surprise.

Startled, Cora turned to see that he had, in that instant, captured a young boy--an urchin, as was apparent on first glance--who was dangling motionlessly in her husband's grip, the expression on his face registering that he knew it was useless to squirm.

"Little thief," Nathaniel said grimly. "Almost had my new watch out of my pocket."

Cora stared at the boy, whose features were unremarkable except for the fact that they were so grubby. Long, matted hair hung from his head and his eyes peered out at her rather sullenly. She thought he might perhaps be eight or nine. His clothes, an oversize shirt and Indian-style leggings, were as filthy as his face. She felt a twinge of mingled distaste and pity.

"You realize if the watchmen had caught you, you'd be whipped?" Nathaniel demanded rhetorically of the lad, giving him a shake. "I might still take you to the police."

"Nathaniel, he's just a child. He's probably hungry."

The boy still said nothing, now with eyes cast at the ground.

"What's your name?" Cora said, curiously. Something about him was tugging at her. Perhaps it was his un-European dress combined with his lighter skin and dark hair that made her think that might have been what Nathaniel himself looked like when younger.

The boy made no response and suddenly Nathaniel spoke haltingly to him in what Cora now knew to be Dutch. It was the language of commerce here in Albany and one the boy was more likely to know than English. She herself had picked up a few phrases for dealing with the shopkeepers. Mrs. Schuyler often laughed at her pronunciation, but Nathaniel was a faster learner than Cora was.

Upon hearing the question rephrased in Dutch, the boy seemed to understand, as he glanced quickly up at Nathaniel and uttered a rapid-fire response which Cora caught no part of. Nathaniel stared at the lad for a moment and then glanced at Cora. "I think he said he'll tell me if we don't report him," he said, with a trace of a smile.

"Is he hungry? He looks like he hasn't eaten in days."

"We can't bring him back to the hotel, if that's what you're thinking," Nathaniel warned her.

"Why not? Just for a little while. Give him some food."

"He's filthy, Cora, and probably diseased--"

"Then he can have a bath as well."

"Vrouw Schuyler will have a fit."

"She doesn't need to know, we can sneak him up the back stairs." Caught by the idea of such a diversion, Cora tugged gently on the boy's arm. "Come with us," she gestured.

The boy, deciding that he stood to gain more than lose from such an action, followed her, casting a glance back at Nathaniel, who remained unconvinced.

They had little difficulty in shepherding him through the back of the hotel and up to their rooms, though there were a few moments when he had to hide in the stairwell while another couple went to their suite in the interim. Once all three of them were safely in the privacy of their own rooms, Cora took a deep breath--and then was sorry she did, for the child, who lingered close to her upon seeing the relative opulence of their surroundings, reeked.

"He smells like he's been sleeping in the street. Bath before food, I think."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but couldn't disagree, and went out to call the maids for water and to ask that their dinner be brought to their rooms instead.

In the washroom, it occurred to Cora that the boy might not want to strip in front of her, so she hesitated wondering if it had best be left to Nathaniel to supervise him, but once the urchin realized that he was not going to get anything to eat until he was properly cleaned and clothed, he gave in with apparent good will and took off his outfit--which Cora then threw into the grate.

The boy, under repeated applications of hot water and soap, began to look slightly more presentable. Cora, while pouring water into the tub, noticed how scrawny he was. His arms and legs seemed like he had a lot of potential growth in him, but his ribs and collarbones stuck out almost shockingly. He didn't, at least on the surface, appear to have any disease as Nathaniel had unkindly suggested, which was good. But she noticed that a lot of what she had thought was pure dirt was not coming off in the water; his skin, uniformly, was quite a bit darker than hers or even Nathaniel's.

She called her husband over, who studied the boy in the tub. The boy didn't appear to be offended by their scrutiny. He glanced up, then went back to occupying himself by using his fingernails to carve shapes in the remnants of the soap.

"Ask him about his family," Cora prompted.

"My Dutch isn't that good." Nathaniel sighed. "I wonder--"

He spoke to the boy in what seemed to be a mixture of Dutch and perhaps Mohegan and possibly Delaware, Cora couldn't make a distinction well enough to determine. The boy's attention immediately re-focused on Nathaniel, and he pattered back in a similar style at once.

Nathaniel looked at Cora. "Dutch isn't his first language either, or not his only one at least. He's got to be part Indian. I heard him say Minasinink...that's--" he frowned in thought. "Munsee. Related to the Delaware, anyway, part of the same family...there are differences in the language and if you recall, Delaware is not my strong suit. Better if Uncas were here." Having said this, though, he turned back to the boy and began speaking to him again.

Cora smiled, and, despite her curiosity to have everything translated on a sentence-by-sentence basis, turned back to the main rooms to see if the dinner brought was adequate and arranged properly, leaving the two males alone to complete their conversation in private.

The portions brought were only intended for her and Nathaniel, of course; but Mrs. Schuyler was always generous with her kitchen, and once Cora divided the roast beef, biscuits, gravy and vegetables into three servings, there was still plenty for them to eat a hearty supper. Once Nathaniel and the boy joined her--the lad having been dressed in the interim in a ridiculously large borrowed shirt, but he didn't seem at all embarrassed by such dinner attire--they sat down together and partook of the meal. Or rather, Cora and Nathaniel sat and the boy crouched on the floor and, having been handed his plate, proceeded to use his fingers to consume the food on it faster than they might have thought possible.

"Never mind," Cora said. "Did you find out about who he belongs to?"

"Nobody, seems like," Nathaniel replied. "His father was, or is, a Dutchman. Boy never met him. Mother died of the pox when he was younger. He doesn't remember exactly when. She was a Munsee, they've been pretty much cleared out of here, so it's not surprising he has no other family."

"So he's an orphan?" She looked at the lad, who, whether or not he was aware that they were discussing him didn't appear to be bothered by it, as he concentrating on licking each of his (thankfully clean) fingers. "That's terrible."

Nathaniel shrugged. "Don't know that it's terrible, pretty common situation in these port towns." But his gaze was thoughtful when he looked at the boy. "Unfortunate that he has to do it as a half-breed, though, I wouldn't wish that on anybody."

"Nathaniel," Cora reproved, not liking the sound of 'half-breed.' "If Alice and your brother--"

"I know, I was thinking that too." Nathaniel rose. He had that restless look about him. "But he's not our relative and it's not our problem, Cora."

"Then whose problem is he?" asked Cora, stubbornly. Though she had no particular desire to be burdened with the responsibility of a half-grown child with whom she couldn't communicate, she couldn't help but wonder what would happen to him if they simply tossed him back out on the street. "What's his name, did you ask?"

Her husband sighed again and spoke to the boy.

"He won't tell me the Minasinink name his mother gave him, but his father's name was Benjamin."

"Ben," Cora mused, and the boy looked at her, his eyes brown and speculative. "How old did you say he was?"

"Thinks he's ten, can't be sure."

"He looks younger."

"Malnutrition."

Cora sat forwards and poured a large mug of tea that had been steeping in the pot, added two generous spoonfuls of honey, and gave it to Ben, motioning that he should drink. He did, with alacrity, as if he were worried it might disappear elsewhere. When finished, he put the cup back on the tray with deft fingers, then folded them in his lap and regarded them both. His eyes still had hollows underneath them.

"Might he sleep here tonight?"

"My dear wife--"

"Just tonight, Nathaniel, it's so cold outside. He'd freeze."

"He tried to steal my watch!" Nathaniel protested, but without much vehemence. "Fine. He can sleep by the fire. I'll have to sleep with one eye open, I guess."

"It will be good practice for you," Cora said cheekily. "I expect you've fallen out of the habit, haven't you?"

Nathaniel said a few short words to Ben, probably of warning, while Cora collected some extra blankets from the trunks stored at the edge of the bed and went to the rug by the fire to make up a sleeping mat for him. Whatever qualms Nathaniel had about the boy, he didn't appear to feel the same way, for he lay down and curled up almost at once and though Cora couldn't quite believe it, was sleeping within moments. _Poor little lad_, she thought, _probably he hasn't been so warm in months_.

Nathaniel, observing her look down at him, warned, "Just don't get attached to him. He has to go first thing in the morning, once he eats again and we find him some proper clothes."

"He's not a stray kitten, Nathaniel."

"I know that. I think it's you who needs reminding of that." With good temper however he pulled her off in the direction of their bed. It was not especially late, but they'd had a long day and the gentle snoring of the boy by the fire was surprisingly soporific.

* * *

Despite Alice's fears that after sharing their first kiss, interactions would immediately thereafter be completely different and complicated for them, things returned to normal very soon in the cabin.

Uncas behaved no differently; he made no further mention of William or any of the events that had taken place while they were there. He did notice the absence of his second-best knife almost right away, and when Alice murmured, embarrassed, that she had sent it off with the soldier, he didn't seem overly concerned and didn't bring up the matter again. He was his usual quiet self, attentive to her needs and moods, always ensuring that she was as comfortable as she could be without being overbearing about it.

He was careful to keep his distance but generous with his affection at the same time, so that if Alice were sitting by the fire in an attempt to get warm he would come, crouch down by her and put an arm around her shoulders. She often welcomed the contact at these times, grateful that he didn't seem to want to take advantage of their new status by becoming any more amorous. It was important for her to know that she could go to him whenever she wanted or needed and expect not to be rejected, even though she was not quite ready to extend the same freedoms to him.

A week or so after the first snow, most of which hadn't lasted, Uncas completed a project that he'd been working on for some time. Alice watched as he lashed the final section of wood with a piece of braided twine, then held out the finished product for her inspection.

"What are they?" Alice wanted to know, accepting one of the bulky, but surprisingly light, teardrop-shaped frames and turning it over in her hands.

"Mmm..._okumak_. Snow shoe." Uncas picked up the ones he'd used as models and compared them. The new ones were smaller. "Yours," he said, matter-of-factly, and then gathered up his tools and materials and put them back in his supply bag.

"Can I really walk in them?" Alice tried to imagine clumping through snow with these things somehow attached to her feet, and couldn't.

"I can. You'll need to practice." With a dry grin Uncas gestured for her foot and showed her how to use the leftover twine to lace it around her slippers.

"I don't think there's enough snow left outside."

"More's coming, probably tonight. Tomorrow you'll get your chance."

"How far could we go in them?"

Uncas considered. "I might take you as far as the lake sometime. If you want."

"Oh yes," Alice said eagerly. Doubtful of her ability to perform in the new contraptions as she was, she longed for a break from their daily routine.

His prediction was right; it began to snow early that evening while they were eating dinner. Uncas told her to look out the window, and she did, marveling at how he seemed to be able to hear the differences in the wind quality. The snow this time was very powdery and light as the first snow had been damp. As she watched by the window, the clearing once again was transformed into a pale shrouded shape. The harsh lines of bare trees softened, the frozen clumps of dirt and mud on the ground were turned into perfectly bleached mounds, and the stream beyond was a white snake lying dormant. Alice closed the window reluctantly only when the chill began to seep with remorseless insistence into the cabin. "It's beautiful," she said, returning to the table. "So quiet."

Uncas looked indulgent as if he were thinking that she would be tired enough of snow before the winter was over, and perhaps he was right, but at that moment, it was perfect to sit there together at their table, with the wind whistling delicately outside, their fire burning fantastical colours from the birch that had been laid upon it earlier, and with a pot of hot stew to share between them. After they finished eating, Alice, feeling warm and contented and bold, dragged her favorite wolf furs over to the hearth and lay down on them, propping her chin on her hands to gaze into the fire. She hoped Uncas would join her without having to invite him to do so, because that would have been more forward than she wanted to be, so when he did she smiled, and he smiled in response at the transparency of her wishes. And after a while he tugged her against him and they lay together looking at each other and he asked her, gently, if she was happy. And Alice was surprised to admit that she was; that thoughts of her sister far away had taken a back place in her thoughts for the first time, and though it might be only temporary, this made her relieved rather than guilty. It was good to lie there in one accord, and, for the moment, she needed nothing else.

* * *

_Wolf Moon (January)_

Cora spotted Ben two more times that winter, after they had sent him on his way the following morning. The first time, she had been on her own, having gone to a dressmaker's shop in the early afternoon one day. She didn't know if he had been following her or if it had just been chance, but she saw a familiar flash of motion as she exited the shop, and he'd been about to disappear when she'd quickly gestured him over. He'd come, though not without an initial wariness.

Cora had tried to ask him in her limited Dutch if he was warm enough in the new clothes she'd gotten for him, but either he didn't understand her or didn't care to answer, for he just gazed at her solemnly until she, urged on by a need to do more for him, pressed into his grubby hand the few remaining coins she'd been holding. The coins disappeared at once and without a smile, though he bobbed his head, he vanished around the corner again. Cora did not mention the encounter to Nathaniel. Though she didn't think he would have minded overmuch about the small amount of money, she didn't want him to deduce that Ben had sought her out begging.

A few afternoons later, when she was having tea with Mrs. Schuyler in the capacious hotel coffee room, the winter sun shining through the front windows on them, she brought up Ben's plight as part of a casual conversation, asking if it were common for Euro-Indian relationships to occur here in Albany and surroundings. Mrs. Schuyler, after initially remonstrating Cora for the inappropriateness of such a topic amongst gentlewomen, concurred that it was indeed a more widespread problem than most would like to admit, and that Dutch and British sailors often had their way with natives (she shuddered delicately at the thought) and the native women frequently found themselves dealing with the fruits of such ill-advised couplings, since they were usually too poor or ignorant (or both) to remedy the situation. Mrs. Schuyler further opined that children born of such relationships would be more wild than not, largely ineducable, and generally not integrable into polite society. When Cora, in turn, opined that it was perhaps not entirely the fault of such children that they had been born into such unhappy circumstances, Mrs. Schuyler became dismissive, said that at any rate it was no concern of theirs and hastened to change the subject of their conversation to one more becoming--female millinery. Cora participated agreeably in that discussion with an effort to remain cheerful but found the simple dismissal nagged at her long after they had finished their tea and she had returned to her rooms.

The second encounter she had with the Dutch-Munsee boy occurred well into the new year, in the dead of winter. She had been hurrying back to the hotel alone, as it was near dinner hour and growing dark. Nathaniel had offered to join her, as he usually did, on that afternoon's excursion, but Cora had declined, telling him to stay indoors and nurse the slight winter cold she'd noticed he'd picked up. So she had spent a rather enjoyable few hours on her own, just meandering along in the fresh air under the bright sky. But she had forgotten yet again how quickly the onset of darkness came these afternoons, and was now attempting to get back to the Tontine before any unsavoury elements asserted themselves. She was not often without Nathaniel's protection outdoors, and he had warned her not to be out after dark if she ever happened to be.

Now, coming down Water Street, navigating her way through the wheel-ruts of mud that were constantly freezing and thawing, tearing up the road, she recognized Ben on the opposite side of the laneway, being hauled along by his ear at the end of an imposing-looking gentleman's arm. Cora had to trot to catch up with them, hailing the grim personage as she reached them. Ben's eyes flickered in recognition when Cora stopped in front of the pair, but then he glanced away.

"Good afternoon, sir. Where are you taking this lad?"

The man looked her up and down briefly, taking in her fine clothes and properly done hair signalling the fact that she could not be dismissed out of hand. "To the docks to be whipped," he rumbled, still with a tight hold on Ben's ear. It must have been painful, but the boy's expression revealing nothing more than apparent boredom.

"Such a small child? What has he done?" Cora forced herself to speak pleasantly and as if it were of no great consequence to her whether Ben were whipped or not.

"Small he may be, but he's a devilish good thief already. Made off with half a pound of mine and then claimed he didn't have it. Tried to search him but he's a slippery little whelp, these half-breeds always are."

On impulse, Cora focused on Ben, extending her hand. "Give it to me," she said, quietly but clearly. It didn't occur to her to think what she would do if he ignored her request, or how foolish it would make her look to the gentleman. And for a moment she thought he would just continue to stare at her with his blank milky brown eyes as he was doing. But then Ben shifted slightly away from his captor's grasp and, after a moment's searching the depths of his small person, produced the desired banknote.

"You're not responsible for this scamp, are you?" the man demanded, his thick eyebrows threatening to climb up into his forehead.

Cora took the money from Ben, wanting to smile at him but not quite daring yet. "Here you are, sir. Since it is safely returned, may I beg your pardon this once? Surely you must have more important things to do, in any case, than to take him all the way down to the docks, with night coming." She sensed that appealing to his sense of self-importance would cause him to consider forgoing any true retribution, since he didn't seem he would let it go out of a kind heart. He was the type that would probably be indoors cherishing his pre-dinner cigar or brandy right about now, if it weren't for this inconvenience. At least, that was what she hoped.

The man did glance up at the sky after she spoke, mumbling an imprecation. "Right, but if I see this boy on the streets again he'll be spared nothing, mind you that." With a parting twist he let Ben go, nodded briefly to Cora and, gathering his long coat around his portly figure, hurried back up the street the way he had come.

Ben shook long hair out of his eyes and gazed up at Cora as if waiting for further instruction. Cora stood, indecisive. It was nearly night. She had no more coins to give him to assuage her conscience that he'd at least have enough for a meal, and she would have felt like that was rewarding him for stealing, in any case.

"What do we do now?" she asked rhetorically. "You're hungry, aren't you? That's why you're still stealing."

He shrugged, probably not understanding her. Cora stared at him for an instant longer and knew she had already made her decision. "Come on," she said, sighing. "Let's go back to the hotel."

It was easy enough this time to smuggle him up through the back entrance, as most of the guests were having their dinners on the main floor. Cora shepherded Ben into her rooms. Nathaniel turned in surprise; he had been in the act of shouldering his coat on. "What's this?"

"What are you doing?" Cora returned, shutting the door safely behind them.

"I was just getting ready to come out and find you. It's quite dark." Nathaniel frowned down at Ben. "Don't tell me he tried to pick your pocket this time?"

"Not mine," Cora said, with a sigh. "Someone else's. I had to intervene. And I couldn't...I couldn't just walk away from him, Nathaniel."

Nathaniel studied her for a moment, then came over and undid the clasp of her cloak at her throat, helping her out of it. "All right," he said, with patience. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Well, start with letting him have another bath and dinner." Nathaniel gave Ben a resigned, if not pleased, glance. "Then we can talk about it."

So the evening with the three of them was spent in remarkable similarity to their first evening together, although instead of throwing out the boy's clothes Cora took the time to wash them and hang them by the grate to dry. And Ben ate as if he hadn't seen a solid meal since the last one they'd shared in their room, putting even the amount that Nathaniel consumed to shame. He didn't fall asleep right after this time, but lay on the rug on his back holding a small jeweled hairpin in his fingers; it had been lying on Cora's night-table and he apparently saw nothing wrong with taking it to examine. She hadn't bothered to chide him for the action, assuming he'd probably seen few enough pretty such things in his life; Nathaniel said snidely that she might never see the trinket again, which she doubted, since Ben was making no attempt to conceal that he was interested in it, but even if she didn't, she wasn't worried.

Intently, Ben turned the hairpin around and around in his small fingers so that it continued to catch the various lights from the fire. Cora and Nathaniel watched him from across the room, still seated as they were at their small coffee table.

"So," Nathaniel murmured. "What do you propose?"

"I've been thinking," Cora said. "What if we brought him back with us?"

Nathaniel must have been expecting her to say something like this because his face didn't register any surprise nor did he respond immediately. Instead he traced round the gilt edge of their delicate coffee cups with a long finger, looked back at Ben, and then back at Cora who tried to meet his eyes steadily. She knew if she showed her own uncertainty he would not comply. She had to seem sure.

"Once we find the wolf camp again. He could stay with them, couldn't he?"

"They are not his people either, Cora. They are Delaware, he is half-blood Munsee."

"I know that." She tried not to take offense at the slightly indulgent tone of voice he'd used with her. "I know that, but you said the language is similar, and that they were related...didn't you?"

"It wouldn't be enough. He's still an outsider. And half white." Nathaniel's voice changed imperceptibly but suddenly Cora realized he was not just thinking about Ben; his own memories of growing up an outsider were coming to him. "There's no way to know he'd fit in any better there than he does here."

"But he doesn't fit in here at _all_. There is nothing for him to do, no one to teach him anything so that he could at least try to fit in," Cora argued. "You told me that the camp often assimilates new people, as some families leave. Ben could make himself useful. He seems smart enough, and certainly he's still young enough to learn new habits, to be taught proper ways of behavior--"

Nathaniel gave her a quirk of a smile. "My new wife is very idealistic."

"Well," Cora said, hearing tartness seep into her tone. "You asked me what my suggestion was, and this is it. If you think it's such a horrible idea, you may as well just say so."

"I don't think it's a horrible idea, I'm just not convinced it's a good one. I don't want to throw him back in the street either." Nathaniel swung round in his chair and addressed Ben in the curious, harsh-sounding melange of Dutch and Delaware. Ben took a few moments to answer but his reply was brief. Nathaniel looked back at Cora. "I wanted to know if it's sure he has no relatives remaining here, Munsee or otherwise."

"He says no?"

"Doesn't know for certain. It's quite likely his mother's side would have nothing to do with him anyway, or her, if they knew of her--" Nathaniel coughed. "--ahem. fraternization with the Dutch fellow."

"We have to help him, Nathaniel."

"Fine, let's say we take him back with us. Stop by at the cabin to see how Uncas and Alice are doing, first, then find the others and see if he can make it there. It's still another month at the earliest before we can head back up. He can't stay here with us until then."

Cora pondered this. It was true that they couldn't exactly take on an orphan without the eventual knowledge of at least some of the hotel employment--they wouldn't be able to keep his presence hidden for very long, and she doubted Mrs. Schuyler would be pleased if such a discovery were made. On the other hand, she was likely to refuse them if they approached her directly with the request to take another person on board. "I suppose not."

"So let me tell him," Nathaniel continued, "well, ask him--what he thinks. If he wants to do it, I'll tell him that he can come find us next month, when the weather warms. But he's got to stay out of trouble until then."

"That might be difficult to guarantee," Cora said. "I don't think he steals because he's bored, but because he's hungry."

Nathaniel gave her a quelling look. "I'll arrange with Mevrouw Schuyler for him to come round to the kitchens and be given two hot meals a day. Servant's food, leftovers and such, it won't be as good as what they serve in the dining room but it'll keep him alive and out of people's pockets. If it doesn't, he can forget about coming along with us because I won't keep a thief around." His tone was foreboding enough that Cora saw that Ben was watching him carefully during this last speech. It took some time for Nathaniel to translate what he needed Ben to know, but Ben appeared quite attentive and respectful throughout, and Nathaniel later told Cora that he had agreed to refrain from stealing as long as he could be sure of some food on a daily basis.

After the discussion, and the various bits of translating, they were all tired and were of one accord about turning in for the night. Ben curled up on the rug and drifted off quickly, and Cora and Nathaniel retired to their bed and followed his example before very much later.


	10. Chapter 10

Alice's turning seventeen that winter was an event that came and went without much more than a distant factual recollection, since she had no way of knowing what the exact dates currently were. In the forest, time meant more when it was measured by mornings and nights, by the sweep of dark and light across the sky, good weather and bad, the changing shape of the moon, and her own monthly courses. She began to be more interested in noticing how thick the ice grew on the stream (how much it had to be broken before it could provide them with water), and how the level of fallen snow fluctuated through colder periods and occasional afternoons of warm sun melting some of it.

Though the weather was at times piercingly cold, and she could scarcely bear to venture outside a few times a day to visit the privy, each time requiring more and more recovery by the fire before she was able to go out again, the winter had not yet been, to her mind, brutal or unendurable. Wildlife did seem oddly absent and scarce. Uncas, though he often went out on milder afternoons, was only infrequently able to return with a scrawny rabbit or a tough quail. Their food stores were still high, but Alice began to notice that she craved the taste of anything fresh or sweet, nearly impossible to come by now. Her evening cups of tea grew less satisfying particularly after she had used all the honey, even after rationing it as long as possible.

She passed the time by reading, even re-reading when the books had been completed the first time. Also she took up the task of sewing with buckskin again, determined to make herself a pair of leggings, which she had never envisioned herself wearing, but the constant cold of snow brushing against her lower limbs whenever she plodded through it outdoors had begun to persuade her to think differently about them. Her fur slippers kept her feet warm enough as long as she didn't get them too wet, but she knew her legs would need to be protected especially if Uncas ever took her on that snowshoeing trip he'd promised he might. It was bad enough to make the short trips to the privies with bare legs; unthinkable on any kind of longer journey. After much time spent working with the coarse fabric and the rough bone needle and threadgut, Alice's fingers began to toughen. She didn't think she would ever actually enjoy the sewing, but it was something to keep her occupied in those few short hours when there was enough light to see by.

That was the other point about the winter; the extremes in light and dark. From afternoon till the following morning, the cabin had only firelight to illuminate it, and it seemed as though they were inhabiting a cave. Sometimes, however, when Alice slipped outside, the sky would be such a vast stretch of white that it made her eyes ache for hours afterwards, even after the exposure of only a few minutes; and it took her so long to re-accustom herself to the gloom of the cabin thereafter that she was sometimes reluctant to go out at all.

Once she finished working on the leggings, she began to practice outside with her snowshoes. It took a while to get used to forging through the deeper snow with the contraptions attached to her feet, but it was a diverting way to spend a little time in the mornings, and it was necessary to maintain the paths to the stream and to the privy. She fell often and ended up coming back into the cabin covered in snow, which amused Uncas even as he scolded her against catching cold. Then she would sit by the fire and doze, drying out all her clothes, while afterimages from the blinding outdoors played over again behind her eyes for long afterwards.

The winter cold seemed to lull suddenly, fading into back-to-back mild days with a serene sky and no new snow; and Uncas said that they could try to make it down to the lake the following morning. Such a trip would require different preparation and greater planning, and he showed Alice the extra supplies he would bring, though they were only attempting a day-long outing, buckskin hides and wraps, spare moccasins, plenty of twine to fix broken snowshoes, and other such necessary items. Alice packed _pumihkan _and jerky to bring along for sustenance along the way. She liked the idea of setting off on an adventure, something different from what they'd been doing every day, and it was not too daunting a concept since the actual distance to the lake was not that great; they had completed it earlier that fall within an hour, though of course with snow the trip would take longer.

So she was in a good mood when, after dressing warmly and banking the cabin fire to be left unattended till evening, they started out shortly after breakfast the next day.

Uncas was ahead of her, of course. He knew where they were going, but she also needed him to break trail. It was easier for her to follow along rather clumsily in the prints made by his larger snowshoes. He had found her a walking stick which she used to keep her balance when the snow shifted unevenly underneath her. He glanced back frequently as they went, asking if she was all right, warm enough, not getting too tired. In truth, within the first half-hour, Alice found the unaccustomed exercise fatiguing, but the air was so invigorating, and the sky for once a tolerable level of brightness, not so sharp that she had to squint, that she was quite enjoying herself. Her breath was puffing out in little wisps as she walked. The forest seemed benign, utterly quiet under its weight of snow, all black and white, undisturbed by wind.

The trip down to the lake was relatively straight until about halfway and then the downwards incline became apparent. It required a different kind of energy to walk downhill with snowshoes, Alice discovered; on the one hand, gravity tugged her so that she didn't have to make any extra effort to move her legs, but then the backs of her legs ached before long. They were coming to a small ravine that she had to slow for, as rock ridges jutted out higher than the snow in places, looking like a dragon's back, needing to be navigated around.

When at last, by mid-morning, the trees thinned out and they found themselves at the base of the perfectly frozen and silent lake, Alice was panting and tired, but pleased with herself for having made it without incident. Uncas rested a hand on the back of her neck. "All right?"

"Yes. Thirsty," she admitted.

He gave her his water flask. "Not too much."

The lake looked completely different from how it had appeared during the fall season. At that time, it had been a stretched half-circle awash with colors on the far opposite banks, the shallow grey-green water speckled with tall reeds of the rice they'd harvested. The water had been much warmer than that of their cabin-side stream. Alice had sat atop the rocks near the water's edge and dipped her hand in it while Uncas had shown her the procedure for gathering the rice. She hadn't paid too much attention at the time; she'd been absorbing the beauty of the surroundings. Now, the lake had a serene, chilly peace about it; the trees along the far shores were black and rigid, and there were no reeds or grasses to soften the rocks, which she had to dust free of snow before sitting down to rest for a while. Where the ice met shore, she could see tiny prints scattered in concentric circles across the ice's top layer of snow. Pointing at them, Alice asked what they were. Uncas said some of them belonged to birds, some to mice. He didn't seem at all fatigued by the journey down and she was mildly envious of him, as her breathing was only beginning to return to normal now.

Uncas moved away, almost noiseless in the soft snow, in search of other tracks. Alice watched him, knowing he was probably going to take the opportunity to get them any fresh meat if it were more readily available here than back up near home. She re-adjusted her cloak around her shoulders and tucked it in around her sides. There was almost no wind and it was pleasant just to sit on the flat rock, with her snowshoes off and her feet to the side, and have nothing to do but rest.

She fell into a bit of a fatigue-induced reverie at some point, having been staring at strands of hair that had escaped her braid and comparing their color to the lightness of the snow beyond, and with little space in her head to really think about much of anything, but when she looked around she realized that Uncas was no longer in sight. She felt a jolt of sudden worry and then spotted motion again, a few bends away along the shore, but he was still there, just at a distance.

A little while later, when Alice looked over again she could see that he had caught something. He was holding it up but its shape was difficult to make out at that distance, and her eyes hurt from squinting. Sliding off the rock--her bones were beginning to ache from the inactivity in any case--she stepped into the soft snow, deciding against going to the trouble of lacing up her snowshoes again. It wasn't that far to walk over to Uncas. She plodded along the shore through the snow which reached her shins, though it was almost knee deep in parts where the wind had built it up.

When she was about halfway to Uncas, the lakeshore dipped in sharply and Alice, instead of following the curve around, decided to cut across the ice and save herself the extra steps. She assumed the ice would be solid and her first few steps were, but as she was only a stride's worth from the bank behind her she saw a thin line of black well up in front of her. Her first sense was one of brief panic though she stopped and tried to remain calm, wondering if it made more sense to stand still or try to leap backwards to the safety of the shore. But she was robbed of the chance to make up her mind when the ice splintered under her moccasins sending her into the water.

Initially, though the shock of its temperature sent her heart racing as she was plunged in, Alice also quickly realized that she was not in danger of drowning at least since the water depths were shallow here, no more than waist-deep. The black water swelled up only about to her chest. But it was icy; she thought she had known what cold was, yet this was the kind of cold that burned.

She might have called out, or Uncas might actually have seen her go down--she wasn't sure, though it seemed like it took him achingly long to reach her and haul her out. Then, in contrast, his movements after that were so fast as to make her dizzy. He brought her over to the base of a bunch of trees where the snowfall was light, used his snowshoes to scrape out a hollow, then insulated the ground with hides from his pack. Within minutes of that he had built up sides of snow around it, broken branches to throw overtop and covered it with buckskin creating an instant, if tiny shelter.

Alice, shivering, couldn't really imagine what was coming next, and when it happened she was intellectually horrified but physically unable to object. With a grim expression Uncas grabbed her and stripped her of the sodden clothing that was dripping around her. In almost the same motion he had stripped off his own shirt and pulled it on over her head, blessedly fast, and then pushed her into the slightly claustrophobic interior of the makeshift shelter. Alice was registering far too many sensations at once. The feel of the rough hides under her unclothed body (a shirt barely counted, even if it reached to mid-thigh), which she couldn't force to stop shaking; the fact that Uncas had just joined her, pulling his cloak around them both and tucking it in so that it covered both their bodies completely. Alice closed her eyes, and knew that he would not be doing this if it did not need to be done for her survival, and part of her was thankful, but mostly, she couldn't get around the fact that she was lying next to warm, naked man. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and wondered if she might possibly be dreaming. Or dying. Gradually her shivering ceased to be so violent, and her body just trembled as she listened to Uncas' heartbeat with her face pressed flat against his chest, willing there to be nothing else.

Some time passed. She didn't know how much.

"Don't go to sleep," he warned eventually, his voice startling her with the reverberations, even as she became aware that his hand was moving in concentric circles over her back. She didn't think she _could_ sleep, not lying together like this as they were, wrapped in a cocoon of building physical warmth but growing emotional unease. His hand felt wonderful, soothing, trailing a heat across her skin that seemed to sink directly into her muscles and bones. "Are you sleepy?"

"No," she murmured, embarrassed to hear her own voice, acknowledging that she was really there, not imagining anything.

"Good. Don't sleep. I'll need to leave you to build a fire soon. When you're warm enough. Have to get your clothes dry."

Alice had no objection either to the fire or her clothes being dry. Uncas' hand moved up to her head, which he stroked for a moment before cupping her cheek in his palm. He scolded her in his own language, or at least whatever he was saying sounded vaguely disapproving. But he stayed with her for a while longer, until she began to feel the cold slowly starting to recede from her core and linger only in her extremities. When her trembling also subsided, he crawled back out of the shelter, bundling her up well before he did, and she could hear him moving about the area setting up a fire nearby.

It felt like a long time before she was finally able to hear the familiar crackling of flame, and twisted her head up to peer out of the shelter's opening to see if she could see any of it. Uncas, still shirtless but with a hide tied around his shoulders, was tending the infant fire and had positioned her wet clothing and moccasins nearby so that they could start the slow process of drying out. He brought her their packs and instructed her to eat some of the provisions and drink a little of the water. She was thirsty more than hungry, but obeyed, doing so as quickly as possible so that she could curl up back under the cloak again.

Once the fire had been burning for a while, and shadows were beginning to encroach, signalling afternoon, Uncas brought her a small stone from the fire that had heated through. Alice had begun to feel the cold coming back and she wrapped her hands around the new source of heat eagerly. It was beginning to appear as if they were going to spend the night and she was starting to fear for the extra chill that darkness would bring.

Uncas, who had disappeared again for a while in search of more fuel, returned, crouching by the entrance and demanding, "Warm?"

She shook her head and then confirmed weakly, "No..."

He muttered a quiet expletive and, shucking the hide, crawled back inside with her, taking her in his arms. The warmth of his body was an immediate relief, as she, throwing modesty aside, wrapped her own arms around his neck and snuggled close. For a few moments, Uncas lay very still, then he shifted to accommodate her presence, putting a hand on the back of her head and pulling it against his chest.

"I think I'm going to freeze," she admitted worriedly, barely able to feel her own fingers or toes.

"You're not. I won't leave you again. Just had to make sure the fire gets your clothes dry or we won't be able to get back to the cabin tomorrow either." He pressed an intense, surprising kiss on her forehead. Alice tilted her head back and looked at him uncertainly, trying to determine in the dimming light what message, if any, could be read in his dark eyes.

It slowly dawned on her how isolated they were. Literally wrapped up in each other's arms, surrounded by close walls of sound-deadening snow, with branches and hides above blocking out the vast darkening sky. And beyond that, nothing but a yawning, empty winter forest. With this sudden acute awareness came the realization that something was going to happen between them that she was powerless to stop, even if she had desired to. She didn't know what, exactly, but she felt it begin when his lips met hers.

She couldn't help but respond to him. It was not a process of thought; it was an inevitability that, if she had only been able to tell it, had begun to occur from that moment, a short season ago, when he had taken her hand and guided her across a raging river. Here, in this remote location, free from any censorious society or disapproving relatives, they would be able to forge a new bond in a relationship that had thus far gone unconsummated.

Doubts she might nevertheless have had, but when Uncas rolled her on to her back and looked down at her, his strong mouth tender, and she knew that even then if she had needed him to stop he would have, for her--Alice could have no other answer but to pull him closer, urging him forwards. And while what was happening with their bodies was unusual and far less comfortable at points than she had ever imagined, at the same time she felt imbued with blissful numbness, as if the strength of the emotional connection between them attenuated any physical discomfort of the experience.

Afterwards, she felt her heartbeat slowly returning to normal. Their legs were tangled together, and Uncas was dropping kisses along her neck and collarbone. "Still cold?" he muttered in her ear, his voice so deliciously rough that she felt a twinge of pleasure in her stomach.

She gave a shy murmur of dissent. It was now, blessedly, dark, and they could only just make out the outlines of each other's forms. She felt warm and liquid, as if instead freezing she might just melt completely into the snow to become part of it.

He moved his mouth up from her neck and captured her lips again, in a long, hungry kiss that left her feeling rather dizzy and wondering if she would ever be able to get up and do normal things again without falling over. At the moment every limb felt shaky. And her stomach continued to ache with a sweet mingled pleasure and pain.

For a time, they lay there. After a bit Uncas' hand drifted down to her waist, thumb running tentatively over her hipbone. "You all right?" He sounded a touch uncertain, and she knew he wanted her to confirm that it had not been painful--or--at least--that she was not in pain right now. She was not quite brave enough to elaborate on the details of how her body felt, so she just nodded against his chest. And heard him sigh a little.

The evening wore on. Alice was growing drowsy in their warm cocoon, almost ready to drift off to sleep, the fatigue of the day's events and the love-making beginning to settle into her bones, when Uncas shifted, whispering that he needed to tend to the fire before night fell completely. Reluctantly, she unwound her arms from around his neck and let him crawl out of the shelter. By the time he had returned, he was the one who was shivering and with a murmur of sleepy amusement at the way in which their roles had been reversed, she took him back into her arms. They both drifted off to sleep as night settled around them.

* * *

Making their way back up to the cabin on the following morning was slow going, though their path up was clearly marked from their trail of the previous day, and there had been no snow to further impede their progress since then. Uncas was immensely proud of Alice for her game determination to face the day ahead; though the events of the previous day had clearly taken their toll on her, she got dressed quickly and quietly in the early hours and waited while he broke camp and helped her with her snowshoes. She was no more inclined to talk than he was and they communicated mostly through touch and glances. Once he had bound her feet properly to the snowshoes he stood up and ran a quick hand through her hair, and she gave him a shy smile in return. She faltered along the trail a few times, and he stopped her, concerned, and made her eat and drink before they continued. He tracked just slightly behind her, letting her precede him so that he was always ready to catch her if she made a misstep. In this way they returned to the cabin, reaching the clearing by about midday under a grey but benign and snowless sky.

Alice, looking pale, undid her snowshoes and stood them up outside, while Uncas set about restoring the dead fire. It would take some time to restore the cabin to a suitable warmth, and he was concerned that she would again catch cold before the fire had a chance to heat the space. But with the availability of plenty of dry wood and tinder it was in no way as much of a chore to get the fire going indoors as it had been the previous evening outside. With a blaze going, and a kettle going for hot water, he came back to Alice's side, sat down with her on the bed and chaffed her cold hands. "Need food?"

Alice shook her head. There were faint circles under her eyes and he felt a pang of guilt, knowing he'd been part of the reason she hadn't gotten as much sleep last night as she might have--not that he could really regret what they'd done, since he'd thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it--he just knew that he needed to restore her to complete health as soon as possible. "I'm just tired," she said, a little feebly, and endearingly, because it was already obvious that she was.

He swung her into his arms, placed her in the middle of the bed and piled furs behind her back and around her. "Rest. I'll bring you some tea soon." He leaned in for a kiss, not sure if he would get it or not but she agreeably turned her face up for a quick meeting of their lips.

Uncas spent a large part of the rest of the afternoon hauling in water with the wooden tub because he knew both of them would need baths sooner rather than later. Alice napped under the furs while he was busy doing this, and while the cabin began slowly to return to an endurable temperature. He then took out the ashes and re-stocked the fireplace pile of wood with more from the outdoor woodpile. By the time early evening had come, supper was simmering by the hearth, the tub was filled with bearably lukewarm water, and Alice had awakened from her nap. She came over slowly to sit by the fire.

"Good sleep?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." Alice tugged self-consciously at strands of limp hair hanging around her shoulders, casting her dark-lashed eyes down as she answered.

"Eat first or wash first?"

"Eat, please."

They ate together still in front of the fire, not bothering to move to the table, sharing from the pot. Afterwards, Alice retired behind the re-positioned partitions and had her bath. She took her time, finally reappearing in the buckskin skirt and top that Sanquen had included as an alternative to the dress she more commonly wore. Her hair was damp and hung like gold honey along her back. She sat by the hearth while Uncas took the tub outdoors, tossed the bathwater, and brought in new water. He didn't mind waiting for a couple of kettles' worth of water to be heated, and, when Alice retired to her bed (though he wouldn't have argued if she'd wanted to watch) he took his own bath.

Once he was clean, he didn't bother to get dressed in fresh clothing immediately but just wrapped a hide around his waist for modesty's sake, came over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Alice had been reading and her eyes grew big behind the book as she lowered it slightly and looked at him cautiously. "Y-yes?"

"I'm thinking," he said.

"About...what?"

"That I ought to share this bed from now on."

"Oh," Alice said, in a small voice.

"Oh?" he repeated, unable to resist the urge to tease her.

"Well, if...you want to." She gazed back at her book and tried to look unruffled.

He moved close to her and took the book deftly out of her hands, laying it aside. "I want to," he said, looking into her eyes.

Alice put out a timid hand, curious fingers straying across the tribal tattoos on his chest. "Then I suppose...it would be all right."

"Just all right?" Uncas moved closer still, taking her hand and moving it over his heart.

She was quiet for what seemed like a long time. At last she admitted, "Good..."

He took her face between his palms and brought his mouth to hers, her damp hair tangling in his fingers as he moved his hands around to the back of her head. She smelled like sweet crushed pine, or perhaps those were still his memories of the night before. And, as with the night before, though she was hesitant, he was gentle in the lovemaking, keeping a close guard on his self-control so as not to damage the fragile nature of this new aspect of their being.


	11. Chapter 11

_Snow Moon (February)_

The second half of winter seemed to drag on interminably compared with the first half. With every week Cora grew more impatient to make the journey back up to the cabin, to see her sister again, and to begin the next part of their life. While she had been enjoying living in Albany, living out of her trunks in a rented room was becoming trying. She longed to have some space that she could call her own. Her own, and Nathaniel's. They had been discussing where they would live once they returned. It was obvious to both of them that they could not all four stay in the cabin; it simply was not large enough. Nathaniel had said that, assuming she were willing, he would build another such cabin close by, which they would then occupy. The idea of being close to Alice and Uncas, while still being able to have their own space, made Cora happy. But the spring was still another month away; and then the journey would take more time, although Nathaniel had claimed perhaps not as much on the way back as it had down; they would have better horses this time, and a wagon of sorts to haul their trunks and supplies.

At the beginning of the winter it had been enjoyable to participate in the new American society, to be surrounded again by food and conversation and excitement of something always happening, but now Cora found herself vaguely bored by it all. It was England all over again but in a microcosm, and, in its own way, more stifling. She often caught herself dreaming of the freedoms they'd enjoyed at the wolf camp, and even on their travels down, in the midst of physical hardship, but mental peace. No constrictive clothing, routines, or expectations. She suspected Nathaniel felt the same way, although he was consistently gallant, never indicating that he despised (as he probably did) all the various social rituals of dressing for dinner, interacting with the other hotel guests, and dealing with townspeople. Cora could still remember what she'd thought of Nathaniel when she'd first met him and how, at that time, she never would have believed that he was capable of playing the role of British gentleman to the extent that he was. She was proud of him for it, and for not voicing the discontent he likely felt.

Mrs. Schuyler had not understood why they should take any interest in Ben's future and initially seemed rather disapproving of the agreement to have him appear at the kitchens twice daily, but when Nathaniel paid her in advance for the meals and with a little extra to what they had agreed upon, she discovered her more charitable side and accepted the proposition since it was only going to be for another month in any case. Cora rather suspected she would be as glad to see them leave as they would be to take their leaving.

The last days of winter blended together, marked only by particularly poor weather that prevented them from going outdoors or spending any time outside of the hotel. On such days they read with their chairs pulled up close to the fire, Nathaniel nursing a goblet of wine, Cora with fine imported tea, while the wind howled outside, a companionable silence between them. As the second month of the year drew to a close they began to make firm plans for travel, though their actual departure date would depend upon how the weather cooperated. The snow was staying later this year, Nathaniel said, after having talked to some of the locals who had previous years to compare it with. He didn't think they would be able to leave until the middle of the third month. They began to pack away supplies in the wagon, especially goods that would be hard to come by once they were back in the isolation of the forest: bolts of cloth, candles, pounds of tea, sugar and salt, and the very basics of building materials for the new cabin. As the days passed, Cora found her mood lightening. The wait was almost over.

* * *

Several heavy snowfalls occurred in the days and weeks following Uncas and Alice's trip down to the lakeshore. One morning Alice had to force the cabin door open because the snow had come up past the stone steps and created a windswept seal over the outside of the door. Then she had to employ snowshoes for the trip to the privy. Even when it didn't snow, wind quickly filled in any tracks or paths they made.

Food stores, again, were falling low, and meal after meal largely consisted of the same thing; corn or beans with a little preserved deer fat with the odd chunk of meat included for flavoring. The honey was gone, as were the tea leaves. Uncas found Alice some winter rosehips but after several attempts at preparing the dried fruit into a potable tea she gave up, as it was simply too bitter without another source of sweetening. They had fallen into an unspoken arrangement to share food preparation duties now; Uncas, who was always awake earlier, usually looked after the provision of the morning meal and then Alice would spend some time in the afternoons ensuring that the evening meal was ready before it was dark.

Their days thus passed in a very similar fashion to the ones in early winter; with tasks accomplished by mutual understanding and cooperation, in a spirit of business-like cordiality; an outsider might easily have spent time in the cabin with them during the days and not thought that their relationship necessarily contained anything deeper than friendship and common respect.

It was only in the night that Alice was able to get past her natural reserve and display any open affection towards Uncas. Warm she was, under cover of darkness and in the privacy of the bed they now shared, but if he thought that meant he could make a reference the following morning to a previous night's play, he soon found himself much mistaken. She had not reached that level of comfort with their activities. Uncas realized that would probably take yet more time and he didn't mind waiting. After all, the nights were longer than the days in any case. He had plenty of time to show her how he felt about her, and if that meant he had to be more restrained than he might want to be during the day, he could handle that. Bedtimes were sweet, when she buried her face in his neck with little murmurs, and her body would stretch up to meet his with an odd abandonment. It was at those moments that he had no doubts about what they were to each other or why they were together, and he thought, from her responses to him, that she felt the same way.

The thought of her conceiving a child had occurred to him, and it was not one that he felt entirely comfortable with; not yet, at least, not while they were alone here, with no elders to consult lest something should go wrong. It would be one thing if it happened within the security of the village camp, where there would be plenty of women experienced in assisting with the delivery of babes. Uncas, too, remembered his father's warning that Alice was not ready for wifehood, and if she were not ready for that she would certainly not be prepared for motherhood. He imagined appearing in front of Chingachgook again with a pregnant Alice, after having been told to stay away from her. His father would probably beat him, he thought ruefully, though he would have borne it without complaint; it would have been his elder's right for having been disobeyed. Then there was Cora to consider, who, under the circumstances, considering that he was unable to legally marry her sister, probably would be in her rights not to be too pleased with him either.

If a child did come, in any case, it was not in his hands, it would be the will of Manto and an event that should be considered a blessing of their relationship. Though he might be the only one who viewed it in that way.

_

* * *

_

_Worm Moon - (March)_

Alice was sweeping out the cabin. She had braided her hair back neatly in two long portions so it was out of her face, and the cabin door was open, bearing the first hint of spring wind into the four walls of their home. The fire needed to be kept burning, of course, and there was still snow on the ground, though only deep in shadowed places, and these days much of the clearing was muddy as the warmer sun had burned away the evidence of winter.

Uncas had been gone all afternoon; he'd said something vague to her about looking for any early game and had departed after lunch. She didn't mind the few hours alone now; it had given her a chance to clean out and air the stuffy cabin. The cool air held delicious promise; the sun was bright. All their hides and furs were hanging outside on the A-frames to freshen. She had just hung up her dress to dry, having washed it in the stream that was once again running, higher and faster now with winter melt. In its place she was wearing her skirt, now rather worn, and a work tunic she had sewn herself.

Absently, she hummed a tune that had been in her head for the past few days, a simple piece she'd used to play on the clavichord as a child. At the time she'd hated it, but it had returned to her memory unexpectedly. Once the sweeping was finished, she planned to start some dinner, though the thought of the nearly bare shelves gave her a moment of discouragement. It would be beans again, no doubt, though perhaps, if Uncas returned in time with a quail or a rabbit that had survived the winter, they would have meat. And he'd promised her it would only be a matter of days before shoots started coming through the ground and there would be fresh greens.

Alice set the broom back in its place behind the door and was about to fetch the kettle to get some stream water for boiling, when she heard the whinny and snuffle of horses. Convinced she must be imagining, she went out and stood on the stone steps for a few moments, scanning the clearing and trying to catch any more sounds.

She waited there, and was just beginning to think it had only been her mind when she heard more distant thuds, like the plodding of animals, and then, suddenly appearing at a distance through the still-bare trees, she saw her sister, striding towards the clearing in a vibrantly-colored dress.

"Cora!" Her heart leaped, and she flew down the steps and to the edge of the clearing. Cora was running to meet her, too, her hair flowing around her like a wild creature, and they embraced each other in a flurry of skirts and hair and laughter. Beyond them Alice could make out the shapes of dark, heavily-laden horses approaching and the tall figures of broadly smiling Nathaniel and Uncas–she suddenly realized he must have known they were coming and gone to meet them–and another, smaller figure–but right now she had eyes only for Cora, for the sister of her heart who she had gone without this past half a year.

"Alice." Cora gripped her face in her hands. "Let me look at you! What are you wearing? Have you been eating enough? What has it been like?" The questions bubbled out of her and Alice felt tears of happiness sting her eyes because she wanted to ask the same ones in return. "I'm fine. We've been fine...but the winter was so long. When did you leave Albany? Who is that with you?"

Cora turned. "Oh, that is...Oh, we have so much to talk about, and I'm so tired, we've been walking since early this morning to make it here today."

"Come into the cabin!" Alice grasped her sister's hand, and, though she was curious about the boy she could see quietly approaching with the men, she was more interested in Cora. They entered the cabin together, arms round each other. "Are you hungry? There's not much ready..."

Cora laughed. "The horses are bearing everything. Tea, sugar...I just want to sit." She did, settling down at the table with a happy sigh. "Go say hello to Nathaniel while I catch my breath. My feet are aching!"

"All right. I'll just go out for a moment." Alice reluctantly pressed her sister's hand and hurried back outside to see the men. Uncas was taking care of the horses, beginning to unload their burdens.

Nathaniel was holding the hand of the small lad. He smiled at Alice as she approached them. "Sister."

It gave her a strange pang of pleasure to hear that warm word come from him. Uninhibited, she darted forwards and gave him a quick hug. His arms closed around her, and she saw that he was startled though equally pleased by her response.

"This is Ben," Nathaniel said, giving the boy a gentle push on the shoulder forward. "He is our de facto adoptee. He's half-Dutch. His mother was related to the Delaware."

"Oh," was all Alice could think to say, surprised, as she stared at the boy who stared back up at her unblinkingly with dark eyes. "Well, he is welcome, of course. Does he speak English?"

"We're working on that. Ben, go on and help with the horses." The lad evidently understood this much at least because after a moment he darted over to do Nathaniel's bidding.

Alice also went over to Uncas, who smiled at her over the broad back of one of the horses he was working on unloading. Alice paused for a moment to touch the glossy neck of the animal, feeling its caramel-colored mane spilling across her hand. "You knew, didn't you? That they were coming."

He shrugged. "Just a feeling. Glad I was right?"

"Very." She took one of the smaller packages from him and held it up for inspection. "Tea!" Rapturously she hugged it close and hurried back inside the cabin. Nathaniel followed her in.

Uncas set the last of the packages aside and glanced over at Ben, who was standing there a slight distance away waiting for instruction but not volunteering any assistance on his own. The boy was very slight, as if he'd been perpetually underfed. His long dark hair made him look like one of their own children except for the paler cast of his skin. He had a hesitant, nervous air about him.

Uncas crouched by the horse's front legs and ran a hand down the length of it, feeling the quality of the muscles and tendons. He glanced up at Ben. "How old are you?"

Ben blinked at him a moment, adjusting to Uncas' better Delaware. "In summer, eleven," he said, carefully.

He looked several seasons younger. Uncas rose and tossed him a scrap of buckskin, checking his reflexes. Ben caught it instantly and without any apparent difficulty.

"Rub down the horse."

The lad obeyed, but did not seem comfortable and it seemed that he might only have learned to be around animals in the time that he'd journeyed with Cora and Nathaniel. His movements were unsure. Where he was not quite tall enough to reach over the horse's broad back, Uncas took over, and then they moved on to the other animal.

"What's your name?" Uncas said across the horse.

"Ben," the boy replied warily.

"Not your English name, your.." he paused for a moment. "Mother-given name." He was curious to see if Ben intended to keep that private.

There was a flash of hostility in the boy's eyes and then he replied, avoiding the question, "Mother is dead."

"And your father?"

Ben shook his head mutely.

"Well. Ben. Your job to look after the horses. Grain at night until they have grass. No cold water for them, remember. Stream's that way–bring some and let it sit in the cabin for a while." Uncas tethered the animals at the edge of the clearing with their long lead-ropes, and shouldered some of the supplies to be brought indoors. He left the boy staring after him with what he was sure was a touch of resentment, or perhaps it was just unwilling curiosity.

Inside the cabin, the two sisters were catching up at the table while drinking cup after cup of sweetened tea, and the men spent the time storing the goods on the shelves in the pantry. Uncas, after examining some of the contents of the supply packages, asked Nathaniel, "Have it in mind to build?"

"Another cabin," Nathaniel said with a grin. "If you think you can stand to have us around as neighbors."

"We can start when the snow melts." Uncas clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, Brother."

"Good to be here. City life isn't for me."

"What was it like?"

"Noisy. Busy. Not much of a place to raise a family."

They looked at the women.

"You're not planning on keeping the horses up here, are you?"

Nathaniel shook his head. As they both knew, the terrain was unsuited to the large animals, nor did they have the long-term supplies to feed and house them in the colder months. "Bring 'em back down to camp in a few weeks or so, I guess, but they'll be good to have around for hauling the logs. Don't have grain for much longer than that. And they'll scare off any game for a while, but we brought plenty of food with us, enough to feed everyone. Father been here yet?"

"Came up with Niyum's letter, before the snow."

Nathaniel smiled at hearing him use the Mohegan word for sister-in-law in reference to Cora. "He stay long? How has it gone up here? With you two? You both look well enough."

Uncas grunted. "Long winter."

* * *

Cora gripped Alice's hand. "I have something for you. It's in my bag."

"What of our trunks?" Alice said, turning curiously to watch as her sister rummaged through her travel sack, producing a paper-wrapped length of fabric.

"We had to leave them down below with the wagon, but they are safe for now and the men can bring them up at any time. I just had to bring this to you early."

Cora watched as Alice unfolded the paper to reveal a pale blue dress. It was modest and pretty, and with its simple cut and style, far more suited to frontier living than the clothes they had brought from England.

"Oh, it's beautiful."

"Try it on," Cora urged, pulling her behind the partitions. Alice complied, slipping out of her old clothes and pulling the dress over her worn shift. The new material was soft and delightful against her skin. She pressed down the skirt in rapture, then hugged her sister again. "Thank you."

Dinner that evening was a lively event, with the five of them gathered around the kitchen table, new candles burning tall and cleanly atop it, a warm fire in the hearth to banish the spring chill of the night, and plenty of good food. Alice was glowing with happiness and Uncas found himself content just to watch her as she chatted with Cora and Nathaniel about Albany and what their winter season spent in town had been like. He noticed that Ben only remained quiet, and left the table early to go crouch by the hearth and stare, heavy-lidded into the fire. It was easy enough to see that the lad felt out of place.

Rising from the table, Uncas went over and crouched down by him. "Water the horses yet?" Ben's eyes flicked guiltily to the bucket he'd brought in earlier. "I forgot." Uncas checked the temperature of the water, which was barely tepid, and therefore potable. "Bring it out to them now, then."

Ben got to his feet, but hesitated.

"What?"

"Dark." The boy shifted reluctantly.

He looked very young standing there. "Right, I'll come with you. Let's go."

Ben hoisted the bucket and carried it outside, Uncas following. The moon was still only a sliver, so the clearing was indeed dark. Once they drew up to the horses, who whickered in response to their arrival, Ben held up the bucket and let each horse drink.

They returned to the cabin and Uncas gestured to Nathaniel that the lad was in need of a place to sleep. After a quick consultation as to where everyone's respective spaces were going to be (Alice insisted that Cora and Nathaniel take their bed, and said that they would sleep by the fireplace) they laid out several furs for Ben in the warmest spot by the fire. Ben, appearing a little embarrassed by suddenly being the focus of all the adults' attention, laid down on the fur and pulled another over his head. They stood looking down at him for a while, then Cora said, sighing, "It was such a long trip up. It'll be good to sleep under a roof again."

"Another cup of tea first," Alice insisted, pulling her sister back to the table.

The men exchanged glances. "Well, I'm turning in," Nathaniel said, yawning prodigiously, and inspecting the bed. "Though whether I'll get any rest with those women talking all night is another thing entirely, eh, Brother?"

Uncas smiled, though in truth he didn't mind at all.

In the morning Alice woke early out of habit and began the task of preparing breakfast for five people, not daunted by such an undertaking now that she had shelves full of new supplies with which to do it. Contained amongst the packages had been a few shiny new copper pots and utensils, which she was delighted to put to use for the first time. While the others were still sleeping, she prepared an oatmeal porridge for their first meal of the morning and set sweetened cornbread to cook by the hearth for later in the day.

Uncas rose shortly after she did and went out to feed and check on the horses, coming back in before long and taking a moment to capture Alice in the pantry, put his arms around her and whisper in her ear that he liked her new dress. Flattered but embarrassed, she escaped, chiding him that they had company now and could not be so free with their affections in public.

Ben stirred then and sat up, yawning, his eyes still swollen with sleep. Alice brought him a bowl of porridge and he ate with unreserved appetite under their appraisal. Nathaniel and Cora rose before much longer and went outside to wash at the stream before coming back in and announcing their readiness to partake of breakfast as well.

Once they had all eaten, Nathaniel stretched and remarked to Uncas that they might as well head back down to the wagon and start back up on foot with the trunks. Uncas considered the logistics of it. The trunks were heavy, but it was their bulky, uncompromising shapes that would make them difficult to bring up to the cabin; made of solid wood and iron, and valuable even without their contents, disposing of them was not an option.

They eventually decided upon rigging a pole and rope sling system to be carried between the two of them. It would be a slow process, but they could be back by nightfall. Ben and the women would stay behind at the cabin, Nathaniel not wanting to subject Cora to any more journeying, and they would not be able to be of much extra help in any case. Uncas and Nathaniel left with their supplies and upon telling Ben to mind the horses and help out with anything around the cabin that Cora and Alice might need.

Once the men had departed, Alice cleared away the remainder of their breakfasts. "Tea?" she asked Cora with a smile. It was almost a rhetorical question.

"Absolutely," Cora replied with a sigh. "I suppose we'll have to start rationing it soon, won't we?"

Making a sound of assent, Alice poured fresh water into the kettle and set it by the hearth. "I can't imagine the men will want to be making the trip to Albany more than once a year, do you? Would you want to go again?"

Cora considered that. "I don't think so," she said after a moment. "It's such a long journey. And Nathaniel told me that, if we need things, we can send for them at the other settlements, which are only about a week away. It would still be months before anything reached us, of course, but it is good to know that we are not completely dependent on nature's bounty."

Alice dug out the small sugar barrel from the pantry, hugged it, then stuck her finger in it and quickly licked it off and sighed in contentment. "Oh, I have missed sugar this winter."

"We brought seeds, too. Nathaniel thinks next spring we can start a garden where the soil is better, he said that a couple of miles south there are suitable spots, so we will never be very far from each other, even when the cabin is built. But that will take most of this summer. I hope you don't mind us staying here until then, Alice."

"How could I mind? Besides, this cabin is as much Nathaniel's and yours as it is ours."

"But you were here all winter, so it seems more yours…and it's really too small for all of us to live in it. Then we brought Ben without any warning."

"He doesn't take up much space, though," Alice said, glancing over at the boy she'd almost forgotten was still there because he was crouching so quietly in the corner, looking off into the distance. "Still, it is...unusual to have a child around."

"I wonder if we were right to bring him. I thought so at the time, but now, here, there is nothing really for him to do; he is too small to help out much, which is not his fault of course."

"Have you really adopted him? I mean, will he live with you always?" Alice continued to watch the boy.

"Nathaniel wants Uncas to help him adapt to the Delaware language and lifestyle, and then bring him to the camp of their people. And then he would hope for Uncas to stay for a little while to judge if he could fit in there, or if he thought Ben would be treated poorly."

"I suppose that would be best, wouldn't it?"

They were both silent for a few moments, then Cora said brightly, "Well, I must say that while that bed of yours cannot compare to the one in the hotel, it's far preferable to sleeping on the ground."

"We like it," Alice said, and then blushed.

Cora looked as if she knew she ought to be shocked but she could only come up with a surprised little laugh. "Alice! So you two are..."

"It was a cold winter," Alice defended. "More than once I thought my toes would freeze off if I didn't have someone to share the bed with. So..."

"It's all right," Cora said gently. "I am not really surprised...as long as you are happy, that is what matters to me."

"I am," Alice murmured. "More than I realized, I think."

They smiled at each other in mutual understanding, and Alice rose then quickly to check the water, now ready for their tea, which they then partook of companionably, lingering at the table.

Nathaniel and Uncas were back, as they had estimated, well before nightfall with their burden of the two trunks. The women had kept dinner waiting for them and warm water for washing, which the men both made use of. Uncas caught Ben as he was about to slink out of doors and demanded, "Look after the horses today?"

The boy nodded, without providing any supplementary details.

"Good." Uncas squeezed his shoulder, noting how Ben ducked away from the pressure of his fingers. The lad was skittish–but that was to be expected, according to Nathaniel, who had told him more of Ben's story on the trip down to fetch the trunks. Uncas knew he would have to be watched for some time. His penchant for thievery was not a habit Uncas planned to send him off to the camp still in thrall of, or he'd find his welcome considerably reduced. His people, while they didn't maintain a concept of personal property to any extent, would not respond kindly to anyone taking more than what was given to him.

Alice was coming down the path in the late afternoon light in her new blue dress, bearing a fresh kettle of water. She looked as if she were struggling, and Uncas stepped outside to take the burden from her. "Listen," he said, pausing for a moment. There were two crows overhead in a distant tree, cawing madly back and forth.

"They're so loud," Alice said.

"It means spring's here."

They listened for a few more moments, inhaling deeply of the cool air, which had an indefinable difference about it, no longer holding the frost of winter. Then they went, together, up the stone steps into the cabin, whose warm light and mood of good humor welcomed them home.


End file.
